


The Tower

by MorbidDramaMaker



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, F/M, Fantasy, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn, mildly dark, mute character, not stockholm syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27425335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorbidDramaMaker/pseuds/MorbidDramaMaker
Summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco discovers an injured Hermione among the dead. In a rare moment of bravery, he brings her to the north tower of Malfoy Manor, a remote place with a sorrowful past. As a new world order springs forth around them, the unlikely allies are forced to adapt to a darkening reality.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 23
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to my 97th piece of fanfiction. I am slowly but surely moving things over from FF.net to Ao3
> 
> I've been working on this story for a few months after kicking the idea around for a bit. It's about 70% done and shall be ten chapters. It felt like a good time to put this out, because much like Hermione in the first few chapters, I too am feeling rather listless and confined by the current pandemic.
> 
> Please review and follow, I generally respond to most feedback!

-XXX-

He came to see her once a day. Sometimes more often. But always in the afternoon, at four o'clock. The elf greeted them both at four fifteen with trays of sandwiches and cakes and a large pot of tea. It used to be Earl Grey, until he realized she preferred fruit teas. She wasn't sure how he knew this. But after a few weeks, there were raspberry teas and apple teas and something she thought might be dragonfruit.

She used to feel indifferent to his presence. For a long time, Hermione felt nothing. She woke, she sat, she slept. Day after day after day. Each day, an echo of the last. If she put energy into thought she might have labeled this period as surreal. She might have diagnosed herself as depressed. In the days and months after the fall of the Order, the tremendous loss of her friends, and her capture, nothing felt real.

Now, though, she felt. She felt annoyance that he was here, that he was the one human face she saw every day. She hated the way he stirred in two sugar cubes, how he would talk to her despite the fact that she never replied, never spoke back. And a small part of her felt a regretful tinge of excitement when the sun began to shift toward the horizon again and she heard his steps upon the stairs.

It was Stockholm Syndrome. She remembered her mother explaining the concept to her when she was a small girl and someone had shown them Beauty and the Beast at a sleepover. Hermione had come home eager to talk about the princess and the romance. Her mother had scoffed then set about defining Stockholm Syndrome to her eight-year-old-daughter. The Grangers were not keen on fairy tales.

Despite knowing that her isolation lent itself to these unwanted feelings, she didn't try to push them away.

He asked for nothing. Every day, the Malfoy heir entered the tower and sat in the armchair by the window, waiting for her to acknowledge him. He murmured greetings and offered forth new books from the library. And, even if she could have spoken, she wouldn't want to.

When tea arrived the house-elf was unceremoniously dismissed. He pours them both a cup and divides the sandwiches and cakes between two plates. Sometimes, he talks about his day. But it is not really his day – she suspected there is a lot more general evil in his day-to-day life. Probably all politics and plotting. No, Draco tells her about the weather. Or a book he recently read. Or something funny he saw on the street in Diagon Alley. He tells her what flowers are blooming in the gardens below.

There was no talk of anything real. She knew nothing of the outside world. Of what remains of the wizarding community.

Still, he has told her enough to know that she is his strange secret. The rest of the Malfoys are unaware of her survival, let alone her existence. And she knows from Malfoy's perspective she is not his captive, but his secret. He is determined to keep her hidden and protected. For the life of her, Hermione cannot figure out why.

He visited once a day, rarely more. It was a long walk up that winding, narrow staircase, and if he was gone too long he was missed. There was much work to be done in this new world order. The Malfoys weren't at the center of it, not as they'd dreamed long ago. But somehow, that was preferred now. They were tired.

There was a small nook halfway up the stairs, set in the wall, where one might sit snugly and read or look out of the window onto the grounds. One of the flat stones of the sill is loose and when wiggled it shifts, revealing a clever little compartment just big enough for a wandbox.

Draco placed his wand in the shallow box every day before entering. There was no point in the risk of bringing into the room. He didn't think there was too great a chance it could pose a threat. Yet he'd learned in the last four years that it was better to assume the worst, especially where Hermione Granger was concerned. So there the wand waited until five o'clock.

Once, he had kept the key in there as well, until Aunt Bella surprised him on the stairs. It had been a long day, he was ready for the respite of the secret in the tower. At four his mother was at tea. If anyone else was home they were either with her in the drawing-room or, if the weather allowed, in the rose garden. At four, Draco was not missed. He was always welcome at tea, but his mother knew him to usually spend that hour in his rooms, alone. The house-elves always brought Master Draco tea and sandwiches. No one questioned this ritual — least of all, where the elves were talking the spread. Which is why the sight of his aunt blocking the stairs with her wild hair and dark aura shocked the young Slytherin.

"Draco," his aunt greeted. It was neither warm nor cold, simply high-pitched and lyrical. "Whatever are you sneaking up here for?"

"I read," he said simply, lifting the book resting in the crook of one arm. "It's quiet."

She twirled a lock of silver-laced black hair. "Funny place to read. The northern tower. There's nothing up here."

Draco tried his best to look untroubled by her questioning. "No one has used it since Great-Aunt Dorothea. It's out of the way."

"Ah yes." Her manic eyes glowed. "Your great-aunt. The one they locked away for loving a muggle boy. She was quite mad, wasn't she?"

"She killed herself," he replied tonelessly. "No one has used the room since. It's got loads of charms on it. I'm not even sure what is up there. Probably just storage."

"Yes, I believe Cissy told me that you've lost the key. And the door doesn't open with the usual charms. Curious."

With the word "key" Bellatrix's hand landed on the window sill of the nook, fingertips brushing the seams of stone beneath which the key to Dorothea's room lay. Draco fought to keep his eyes on his aunt's face.

Disinterested, he moved forward, sitting on the step below his aunt. "I don't know why she'd want to go in there anyways. I doubt there is anything of interest. It's been locked up for years, besides, it's likely a mess. Were you looking for me, Aunt?"

"Yes," she answered, moving past him to the stairs below. "His lordship wishes to see you, tomorrow, at the Ministry. They're announcing the new Minister of Magical Transportation and he wants you there. We need young faces like yours to show support."

"Very well. I'll have Meldy put out my dress robes."

Bella nodded her approval. "Good lad. His lordship relies on you to be the image of our future. A young, strong pureblooded wizard who follows the path laid out for him. You know your presence is important."

"Of course, Aunt Bella."

He waited until her footsteps were inaudible before he removed the key. From that day forward he wore it around his neck, beneath his robes on a simple silver chain, never letting it leave his sight.

-XXX-

The early hours of May second were largely a blur to her now. She remembered Hagrid sobbing and carrying Harry, like a child. She recalls crying to see her best friend held before a crowd as a symbol of defeat. Neville shouting. Ron's face when the Death Eaters turned their wands on the crowd. Someone sobbing loudly. A scream. Ron shouting. Flashes of light. Running.

Her hand in Ron's as they fled the castle, picking their way across the craggy landscape. Scrambling in the faint pink of dawn. Ron plummeting to the ground after being struck from behind. Screaming as she watched him convulse with the effects of the curse and his eyes go glassy as the life slipped away from them.

Trying to cast shield after shield as they descended upon her. A voice growing hoarse from shouting spells she'd never wanted to cast, the green light of her curses bright with her rage.

Faltering as she struggled to protect too many sides. A shield slipping. Something striking her chest. Warmth seeping from her.

Pain. Darkness. Gone.

And then –

A hazy awake.

She remembered Draco's pale face, smeared with ashes and horror when he saw her in the courtyard, among the others. She does not recall how much time had passed, but the world was dark again.

-XXX-

There were many things he saw that night that would haunt him until the end of his days. Many things he often wishes he would have done different. Regrets that will forever linger.

The sight of his peers in the courtyard, sprawled with glassy eyes, feeling bile in the back of his throat the scent of death and burnt flesh, it would never leave him. Seeing her amid the dead, slung on the body of the boy she loved, and then watching the faintest flicker of a pulse in her grime-smeared neck -to see the smallest rise of her chest –

Hope like what filled him that day would never be matched.

The Death Eaters who were dispatched to take care of the dead on both sides were far more occupied with their own dead. They were obviously biased care for their own. He took the soonest opportunity to cast a disillusionment spell and levitate her, knowing if he were to wait there might not be enough time.

The nearest secluded place was a bathroom on the first floor. Myrtle's bathroom. Unlike much of the castle, it was untouched. The ghost hovered before the mirrors, looking perturbed. She turned when the door opened, her milky eyes going wide behind her thick lenses. Draco ignored her buzzing as he removed the disillusionment and directed the levitation spell to steer Hermione onto one of the benches that lined the wall of frosted windows in the back of the bathroom.

Speaking quickly, Draco murmured the countercurse, rotating the tip of his wand over her chest. It was not a fast spell. But he did not have time on his side. The skin began to knit itself back, slowly. When it refused to go any further she was left with a series of thin, angry red scars.

Exhausted, Draco sat back against the wall, breathing deeply. Myrtle was not satisfied, however, and kept rattling off questions.

"Can you keep quiet?" he asked Myrtle lowly. "And keep her safe, in here?"

"What's going on?"

Turning back to Hermione he watched her claim a few more shallow breaths before answering. "A lot of people have died, Myrtle. A lot of students and professors. The castle's been attacked. She – she's not well. Can you please make sure no one finds her? Just for a little while. I need to find someplace safe –"

He'd rarely seen a ghost look scared. They were already dead, after all, so did not have much to fear. Myrtle quaked a little as her pigtails bobbed. Yes.

-XXX-

Hours passed before he could risk moving her again. The Dark Lord had kept the antiapparition charms down to allow transportation of the injured to St Mungo's. It worked to Draco's advantage. He went ahead to Malfoy Manor and readied a space, rushing through the necessary preparation. He knew just where he could hide a secret mudblood.

When his great grandfather Abraxas was still a child, his elder sister Dorothea was found to be in love with a muggle boy from the French village near where the family summered. She was about to enter her seventh year at Hogwarts. The family immediately whisked her back to Britain, but the damage was done. When it was discovered that they were exchanging letters and Dorothea was planning to elope with him after her graduation, they pulled her out of school and locked her in the northern tower of Malfoy Manor. She languished for months, begging to be released. But they kept her there with only a house-elf for company. To secure her for good they found a Rosier willing to marry her. A month before the wedding was to take place she killed herself in that tower room. But not before setting her house-elf free on the condition that they give one final letter to her beloved.

That room had been sealed for decades. No one wanted to remember Dorothea Malfoy. The key had been lost long ago.

At least, that was the story most of the Malfoys knew. Draco knew that the key had not been so much lost as it had been forgotten – perhaps purposefully, by a great-grandfather who didn't like to think of his shameful sister. Draco had found it among the items left by Abraxas in the family vault.

When he was younger, he crept into the room several times. It was dusty, to be sure, and there were many artifacts of Dorothea's scattered about. A wardrobe full of old fashioned dresses. A pile of books and magazines on the bedside table. Half-written letters, balled up and scattered on the desk.

He could picture her pushing aside the sheer white curtains to stare out the window, wondering about her sad fate. Did she know, when they threw her in there, that she'd never come out alive again? Or did she think they would show their eldest child mercy against a legacy of pure, unsullied, magical blood?

That night his thoughts did not linger on his great aunt. He cleared the room of dust and debris with several hurried charms. Summoning Meldy, his personal house elf, he ordered her to have clean water, bandages, and whatever healing potions the medicine cabinet had to offer. She was to be waiting in the room. It was imperative she not tell anyone of what happened in this room. The elf nodded her head solemnly at the instructions and disappeared with a faint pop.

-XXX-

Myrtle was floating near Hermione rather worriedly when he arrived. Less than an hour had passed since he left. Hermione's breathing was still shallow.

"I thought she might come over to my side," the ghost remarked in a poor attempt to be humorous.

Draco ignored her, crouching to lean over the witch. The blood on her flesh was now fully dried. It had crusted to a deep black-brown. He noted several broken fingers, a severely swollen ankle, and a varied collection of bruises and lacerations. There was a good chance a few of her ribs were broken or at least cracked. Nothing else life-threatening, from what he could see. If he could hold her steady, they could apparate.

Voldemort wouldn't keep the anti-apparation wards down for much longer. He couldn't risk it – the area that wards covered was expansive. Keeping them down left him and his limping crew of Death Eaters vulnerable.

"Thank you," he told the ghost. "Please, keep this to yourself."

The ghost still looked terrified. But she nodded as Draco lifted the unconscious witch from the bench, holding her by the waist. Myrtle drifted in front of them, worriedly hovering.

"Will they follow you?"

Draco paused. "They shouldn't. No one knows she is still alive."

And with that, he disappeared.

-XXX-


	2. Chapter 2

**-XXX-**

Bright light forced her eyes open. Dawn was bursting into the room through a series of windows. She bolted upright and immediately felt the stretch of torn flesh roar in protest. Pushing back sheets she could see thin slashes running down her chest. _Sectumsempra._ She wasn't sure who had cursed her. But they hadn't had much strength behind it. She was still alive.

Still alive and no longer at Hogwarts. The room before her was entirely unfamiliar. Deep blue wallpaper lined the walls and the ceiling was lofted, stretching high above. Circular, it was furnished with a desk, a wardrobe, the narrow bed she was in now, two French blue winged-back armchairs that had seen better days, and a small table with two chairs. A fireplace dominated the space directly in front of the bed. A golden clock sat below a pastoral painting on the mantle. Everything seemed of an expensive quality if a little old. And there was a mustiness to the room.

Gingerly she pushed back the velvet duvet to examine herself thoroughly. She was sore, black and blue, but most of the major injuries had been tended to. The twisted ankle was no longer swollen. Her broken fingers on her left hand were healed entirely. The scars on her chest were in the process of closing – though whoever had treated her clearly knew the countercurse. Her skin was clean, hair no longer matted with the gunk from the Chamber of Secrets. She was dressed in a simple cotton nightgown.

Where was she? And who had been caring for her? How long had it been since – since -

Easing out of bed slowly she stumbled to the window, hoping for a better clue as to where she was. She was taken aback to realize that she must be in a rather tall structure, as the ground was far below. The setting before her was rural and covered in trees. But directly beneath her window was a carefully maintained garden surrounded by a stone wall. A fountain claimed the center. Hermione's eyes strained to make out the small white objects moving slowly below. Dread sank deep into her weary bones when she realized what they were.

Snow white peacocks.

Her horror was only increased, however, when the door set in the far wall opened slowly and Draco Malfoy stepped inside.

**-XXX-**

"You are awake," he said.

Hermione stayed rooted to where she stood before the window. The early morning light paired with her wild mane and white night shift gave her an angelic appearance. He blinked back the harsh light and stepped further into the room. She seemed to shrink back as he approached. Draco slowed.

"I know you are probably confused." Here he paused, expecting some kind of a Granger outburst. She didn't enjoy confusion, generally. Almost as much as she hated him. When she simply gazed back, face impassive, he continued. "I found you after – after the battle. Among the dead. I knew if they found you, they wouldn't offer you the chance to change your allegiance. You're a mud – a muggle-born. And friends with Potter."

He waited, expecting at least a question. Still, she said nothing. He went on.

"I smuggled you here. You're at Malfoy Manor. I know you don't have a reason to trust me, but you've been here three days. My personal house-elf has been seeing to your care. No one knows you are here. I –" Draco hesitated. He wanted to tell her why he had done this, what had motivated him to save her. Give her some explanation that made sense. It's the exact thing he'd been asking himself over the last three days. _Why her?_

For the first time since he entered the room, he thought he could see emotion play across her face. That question echoed in her eyes too.

"I couldn't leave you," he finally said hopelessly. "You probably think I wanted this, but you're wrong. I never wanted to see any of you dead. I grew up with you, Hermione. I may not have been part of the Harry Potter fan club, but I didn't want it to happen like this."

The girl before him hugged herself as he spoke, half-turning away to face the window. He could practically hear her shouting in his head. _How did you expect it to go, you bloody git? You didn't see that this was always going to end with bloodshed on both sides? This story could not have gone any other way._

Lowering his head, Draco spoke. "That's a foolish thing to say. I'm sorry."

The young witch did not move. Her eyes appeared glazed as they stared ahead.

Draco moved near, positioning himself to stand next to her. She did not acknowledge him in the least.

They stood like that for a long time.

**-XXX-**

The last person she expected was her childhood bully. It felt like a cruel joke. Everything wasn't okay. She wasn't safe. She was a prisoner.

Draco moved into the room slowly, as though she were a wild creature he was trying not to scare off. Hermione wouldn't have bolted even if she'd seen a clear exit. She was frozen, staring at the blonde boy who looked more gaunt and pale than she ever remembered. Over the last year, he'd crossed over from boyish to manly, though it came with a hollow sort of look. He sported some five o'clock shadow and a general weariness that aged him immensely. His grey eyes bore into hers with a tentative expectation. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized he was speaking.

"I know you don't have a reason to trust me, but you've been here three days. My personal house-elf has been seeing to your care. No one knows you are here. I –"

Three days? Did that make it May fifth?

He waited for her to speak. Hermione could only stare. Why had he done this? Why had Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, and son to one of the most infamous Death Eaters, save a mudblood he'd despised? Not only was the notion itself strange, but he had likely done it at great risk to his own life. To be found sneaking a half-dead Order member away from the carnage, healing her, keeping her in his own home…there was no doubt he'd face punishment. Maybe even death.

He spoke again, an odd note of desperation coming out as he tried to explain himself. "I couldn't leave you. You probably think I wanted this, but you're wrong. I never wanted to see any of you dead. I grew up with you, Hermione. I may not have been part of the Harry Potter fan club, but I didn't want it to happen like this."

A dull throb struck her chest. If she had the energy, Hermione would have laughed in his stupid Slytherin face. But she couldn't summon her voice, let alone the will to explain just how foolish he'd been to think that there was any other ending to a story in which Voldemort won. Wrapping her arms around herself, she turned back to the window. After a tentative moment, Draco joined her.

He might have said something more, however, all Hermione could hear was the sound of her own blood moving through her veins and the _tick tick tick_ of the golden clock on the mantle.

Together, they observed the peacocks strutting around the manicured grounds until Draco summoned an elf for tea. And thus began the first day of the rest of Hermione's life.

**-XXX-**

He didn't have a plan. Never had a plan beyond "keep her alive and safe." Now she was past Death's threshold and no one suspected that one of the Golden Trio survived the battle. So now what?

It wasn't as though he could Floo her to Madagascar. The networks were being watched. Brooms were too slow and he wasn't even sure she could apparate in the state she was in. And even if he could do side along he'd have to get her beyond the walls of the estate under the eyes of his parents and aunt. Then where would he take her? There are a few Order members that likely survived, but he would be the last person to know where they are hiding. It wasn't as though they were sending postcards.

Getting her out might be possible. But keeping her safe, in the long-term? Finding a place where she would be away from the chaos of the Dark Lord's reign would be near impossible. He wouldn't even know where to start.

 _It's not your responsibility,_ a small voice in the back of his head occasionally piped up. _You got her out alive, that's more than enough._

Draco ignored the voice. He'd already the work of getting her to survive. It might be a sunken cost fallacy, but he wasn't about to allow his investment to go south simply because it would be a challenge. For now, she stayed.

Another smaller, slyer voice crept in sporadically. _Selfish, selfish,_ it sang. _You're keeping a mudblood in the attic to prove to yourself that you're not like them. When really, you're no better. She's not grateful. She'll never forget what you are._

This voice was usually drown out by the ingestions of a generous quantity of his father's favorite Scotch.

**-XXX-**

On May tenth her scars had faded to thin, silvery lines that run across her breast bone like spider web. They matched the ones Potter gave him in their sixth year. He'll never tell her as much. It's a strange, small comfort to know they have that in common.

She had still not spoken to him. He'd asked Meldy, too, and the elf confirms that she has also never heard the witch speak.

This troubled Draco. He'd sent the elf specifically because he thought she might tempt Hermione to speak, what with her house-elves rights nonsense. But the most Meldy could report was the occasionally vague smile. Hermione made no requests. She'd still be in that nightgown if it were not for the elf bringing her clothes from the wardrobe. She seemed to never suffer hunger, for she never asked. Draco quickly decided that instead of waiting for orders from the witch, Meldy was to bring three meals a day, plus tea. The elf would summon a bath every other day, empty the chamber pot regularly, and observe Hermione for any other needs. Anything unusual she would run by Draco. It was clear that Hermione was not yet capable to see to herself.

He brought her books. Every day he selected one or two from the library, hoping that it might spark something. For days they were just stacking up. Hermione's main interests seemed to be sleeping and staring out the window blankly.

"I've brought you a Herbology book," he offered the afternoon of June third. "I know it's not your favorite subject. But this one is really interesting, Has some chapters on the rare Amazonian orchids and their magical properties. There are some beautiful watercolors."

That earned him a rare glance. However, she quickly looked away. Holding back a sigh, he added the book to the pile on the mantle.

Draco was beginning to fear that she could not speak. That she'd been damaged in some way beyond his comprehension or she was so overcome with grief that it was nigh impossible. And if that were the case, he didn't know what he could do.

After Meldy left them to tea, he tried a new tactic.

"This was my great-aunt Dorothea's room," he said quietly as Hermione nibbled on a cucumber sandwich while staring numbly ahead at the pastoral painting on the mantle. In it the shepherdess was dancing with her sheep. "We're in the north tower. It's magicked to be bigger than it looks on the outside. It's quite out of the way. No one remembers it's up here, anyways. Not since Dorothea died."

Hermione's impassive expression was unchanged. He took that as an invitation to continue.

"She was only a little younger than us when the family caught her with a muggle boy while they were on holiday in Marseille. They immediately left France and thought the matter was settled. Dorothea started her seventh year at Hogwarts. Someone took it upon themselves to inform her parents that she was writing to that muggle boy and they planned to elope after graduation." Here he paused to examine her face. Still nothing. "They withdrew her from school immediately and locked her up here and quickly arranged a marriage with Trenton Rosier. A month before the wedding she killed herself. Poison. She bribed the house-elf to bring it to her."

This miserable tale had no effect on the witch. Draco went on.

"The room was sealed and the key misplaced. I found it, five years ago and tried every door in the house until I found this one. I used to come up here to think. It's peaceful."

When the Dark Lord had taken up residence at Malfoy Manor, Draco had not dared used the room. It was his and his alone, and nothing was secret with his lordship around.

"You're safe here."

_But for how long?_

**-XXX—-**

Meldy was a twist of the knife.

The elf herself was pleasant enough. She kept a safe boundary, did not make Hermione feel fussed over, was thoughtful but not overbearing. She seemed to be more on the Winky end of the spectrum rather than the Dobby side and appreciated her master. She did not say much, but it was clear that Draco was kind to her - well, as kind as a master could be to a slave. Hermione saw them interact nearly every day, and Draco spoke to the elf with a kind of indifferent respect that a well-bred wealthy person inherited upon birth.

Still, all of the evidence proving Draco to be a kind master wasn't enough to erase the fact that an enslaved elf was tending to her every need. It made Hermione ill.

Every day Meldy brought her three meals a day, plus tea. She laundered all of her clothes, changed the sheets once a week, and summoned a bath every other day. Hermione could offer nothing more than a smile, but it felt hollow in the face of something that grated on every fiber of her being.

**-XXX—-**

Every day was the same.

Wake. Eat. Look out the window. Read. Tea. Sleep.

Hermione felt like she was in a dream. Her injuries were long healed but she felt sluggish, subdued. She vaguely wondered if it was a symptom of the grief or if the room was charmed to make its occupants feel fuzzy. Now that she knew its history, she had to wonder.

Grief cloaked every moment. Had she been out in the world, focused on something, working towards a normal life, perhaps she might have shed it weight. But here, in this room, surrounded by the enemy, it suffocated her. She was living a sedentary life now; she felt restless and weary all at once.

In her sleep, she dreamed of the battle. Even then she was actively mourning. She saw her friend's faces, heard cries of anguish. Flashes of light against a storm-colored sky. Awoke to cries of her own.

She hated Draco. She lived for the moments he visited. She loathed his presence as the only person in her life. She wanted him here with her, always.

But mostly she just wanted to slip away.

**-XXX—-**

Two months after the battle she smiled for the first time in his presence.

Draco, who had spent the better part of his week dealing with bumbling idiots, was weary. He'd been assigned winning over his peers who were in Azkaban, convincing them to join with the Dark Lord. The number of pureblood British wizards were dwindling. Lord Voldemort's most pressing goal, after bringing order to the isle, was creating more witches and wizards to serve his needs. Having a good chunk of the child-bearing population in prison would not serve those ends, therefore, they needed to be convinced that alliance to the new world order would work out in their favor.

Getting there required Draco to work with a team of younger Death Eaters to strategize how best to persuade these ingrates of their benefits of surrendering. They may not be allowed to choose their partner, but the Dark Lord would ensure their safety and security. They would have a place in the future of the new wizarding world.

That particular day Draco had overseen the "convincing" of Susan Bones to a marriage with Adrian Pucey. It had not gone to plan, with Bones threatening through tears to kill herself and a reluctant Pucey hovering in the corner, aghast with her outburst. But still, Draco had seen worst matches make it through.

Bones was half-blooded, which was not ideal. But the Dark Lord was being more lenient than had been anticipated. Half-bloods, if there were of two magical parents, were acceptable. Those with a magical and non-magical parent were generally discarded unless they could prove themselves disgusted by their own heritage and magical enough. "Enough" was an arbitrary unit of measurement and it seemed only the Dark Lord could determine "enoughness."

This was his third session with Bones. He'd been sure after their last meeting that she wavering closer to their side. She'd met Pucey, he'd brought flowers and everything, the dope. Bones, who had spent the last five weeks since the battle in Azkaban, was taken with the gesture. But in the two weeks between sessions, something had changed her mind.

After nearly two hours, Bones finally signed the proper paperwork. She was weeping. Draco had no doubt that she would eventually try to take her own life, but with any hope, Pucey would keep an eye on her. Susan was pretty, and Draco remembered her to be kind and gentle in school. Pucey was not a bad fellow, either. With luck, they'd be something close to happy.

Draco didn't much believe in luck.

So he'd come home tired. He saw his mother, kissing her soft cheek and answering her question about his day. Lucius wasn't home. Being part of the Dark Lord's inner circle meant that one was rarely home by five for family dinner. After he'd spend the better part of an hour with Narcissa he slipped upstairs to Hermione.

Meldy met him at the door with a rock glass of his father's favorite scotch, sensing the tension in his shoulders. Across the room, Hermione sat on the windowsill engrossed in a large book.

Draco crossed the room, his heart lifting at the sight of the one good thing –

Promptly tripping on an ottoman and sloshing the amber alcohol all over himself.

Hermione's head snapped at the sound. At the sight of him drenched and sprawled on the floor, she gave the tiniest snort. Which turned into a reserved smile.

It was worth staining his favorite robes.

**-XXX—-**

When it felt like her strength was somewhat returned she attempted wandless magic. Something simple. Levitating a teacup.

But try as she might, the fine porcelain would not budge.

Hermione was still learning wandless magic. Over the last two years, she'd practiced diligently and could reliably move objects and do some minor transfigurations. Potions too, if she focused she could do the necessary incantations involved in the process. So it was troubling that she struggled to lift something as small as a teacup.

At first, she attributed it to her lack of strength. After the battle, her injuries, the trauma, it was perhaps too much to ask of herself. Wandless magic required a good deal of energy and focus, which is why only the powerful witches and wizards could master the skill. But as time went on she came to realize that it wasn't a lacking on her part.

One day while pacing the room, she noticed some carvings along the casing of the door. They were thin and faint, so it was no surprise she'd never noticed them before. Runes. Wards, possibly.

She dragged a chair over to get a better look, balancing carefully as her fingers traced the characters. They were wards. Antiapparation, which was no surprise. Sound-deadening too. And another, one that she was not familiar with. Hermione wracked her brain, trying to place the combination. She went to bed that night, the shape of the runes etched in her mind, churning as it tried to recall when the ward could be.

Around three in the morning, she woke with a start after a particularly violent dream. In it she was on a mist-covered field. Beyond the milky haze she could hear her friends screaming – Harry's hoarse cries, Ron's cursing, Ginny shrieking hysterically, Neville's low moan of pain. She ran towards the sounds, crashing into puddles of blood as she tried desperately to find them. Occasionally out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a figure in black and when she whipped 'round, wand at the ready, nothing happened. Her magic had failed her. That was when something struck her from behind and –

Her chest heaved against her white nightshirt, hands curling into the duvet, sweat coating her skin. A few steadying breaths relieved her pounding heart. She was in Malfoy Manor. She was safe.

Hermione's eyes went to the top rail above the room's singular door. She recognized the last combinations of runes. It was the ward to repress wandless magic.

**-XXX—-**

Rumors swirled around who had survived the final battle on the Order's side. Since the end of the battle, the notion that Potter was alive and hiding out had been whispered among those with a small flame of hope. Other names cropped up too – the Weasley twins, McGonagall, Shacklebolt. Some he knew had survived and were being kept in Azkaban, their name not released to the public. Others he knew to be dead; he had seen the bodies themselves.

One that persisted, strangely, was Longbottom's. He heard people swore that Neville Longbottom of all wizards had led a group out of the battle and to eastern Europe. More outlandish storytellers claimed he was taking refuge with other survivors at Durmstrang. These people had clearly never met the awkward and slow Longbottom Draco had attended school with.

Still, he wondered. There had been a number of missing students and teachers. He wasn't entirely sure who – the Dark Lord had decided the fewer who knew, the better. He had a few Aurors on it.

Hermione's name came up once or twice, but not nearly as often as Neville's or Potter's.

**-XXX-**

Summer passed. Then came autumn.

When fall came and she could see a fiery landscape out of her window, she wondered if there were students boarding the train to Hogwarts. Had they managed to open the school? Were they able to shop for supplies in Diagon Alley? Where would they get their wands, without Olivander's?

Life would go on, she supposed, even in the reign of the Dark Lord. It must.

In the nearly five months she'd spent in the north tower of Malfoy Manor she had yet to utter a word. It was something that clearly ground on Draco. Hermione wished that his irritation was the reason behind her silence.

Meldy began bringing her jumpers, thick warm woolen ones that itched slightly. Dinners turned to hearty stews. In the evenings the elf built a fire – something that at first frightened the witch, but her host assured her that despite the tower having a chimney, it was enchanted to hide any smoke. All of the fireplaces in the manor did so, as the sight of the smoke was unseemly to some ancestors several centuries ago.

Draco brought her cinnamon apple tea during their afternoon meetings, complete with a cinnamon stick. She didn't know how he knew it was her favorite thing to drink when the leaves changed colors.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter!

**-XXX-**

The day came when he knew keeping Hermione was no longer entirely tenable.

"Hello, Draco."

He started at the greeting when he opened the door. Briefly, he hoped the witch had finally, finally spoken after six long months. But to his horror Hermione was strapped to the armchair beside the window with thick black rope, mouth gagged, honeyed eyes wide. It was his aunt Bella who'd spoken from where she leaned against the fireplace, wand spinning between her fingers. The door behind him snapped shut with a flick of his aunt's wand.

"You've been keeping secrets," she purred, pushing off the mantle. With her wild iron-streaked hair and manic eyes, Bellatrix looked electrified. She was _excited_. "Oh, but you've been so naughty. Sneaking up to the attic to tend to your captive mudblood."

Draco's eyes were on Hermione. She didn't appear impassive for once. Against the rope, she trembled. He recalled that the last time she had been so close to Bella, the elder witch had held her to the ground and carved the word "mudblood" into the flesh of her arm. He could see it now, in fact. Bella must have pulled up the sleeve of Hermione's sweater to revel in her handiwork. At the sight of the raised, scarred skin, Draco felt bile rise in the back of his throat.

On the ground beside her, a small figure in rag was crumpled. Meldy. That must have been how Bellatrix had forced her way in. The key was warm against Draco's chest, reminding him that the room was otherwise sealed. Only he and Meldy could enter. Bella must have threatened the elf to apparate her in. Had she known who was inside the northern tower? Guessed or simply decide to force her way in for the fun of exposing her nephew's secrets?

He needed to lie. Lie and convince her that Hermione wasn't worth hurting. Didn't mean anything to him.

"What does it matter to you," he sneered. "What I do in my spare time? My hobbies aren't affecting anyone."

At the word "hobbies," Bella cackled. She slid her wand into her sleeve. Crossing to loom over the armchair, she stroked Hermione's face with the tips of her long black nails. The younger witch shuddered at her touch.

"As much as I respect a man's nature, Draco, I think the Dark Lord would be disappointed to know that you snuck Potter's little friend away in the aftermath of the battle. After all, no one wizard's desires ought to come before the good of all." At this she sank her nails into Hermione's cheek, pulling them down and leaving three bloody gashes. Hermione whimpered while powerless, Draco watched, trying to appear untroubled.

"Besides," his aunt continued. "It's a nasty thing, playing with a mudblood. You're the future of our wizarding world, Draco. We cannot have you mixing with a slimy little thing like her. If you want an outlet, your mother would be thrilled to find you a wife. But should anyone know you've had your way with the likes of her," she thrust the young witch's chin upwards. Hermione's eyes were watering. "Well, your reputation would be tarnished, to say the least."

"What, then, do you propose I do?"

Bella was preoccupied, staring down into Hermione's face. He could see that the witch's fingers were digging into the threadbare arms of the chair as the Death Eater peered into her eyes. On the ground beside the chair, the pile of rags was shifting, just slightly.

"Exterminate her, of course." Bella finally released Hermione's chin and moved from behind the chair, giving the captive witch her back as she stalked towards Draco. "As you should've done in the first place."

He looked past her, to the girl with blood running down one cheek. At the small elf who was struggling to stand.

"I know it can be hard," she sighed. "When you've had a pet, for so long, it's difficult to let them go. But really, Draco, it's for the best. And you'll be stronger for it."

"If I do this," he said. "You'll not tell the Dark Lord?" Adding a note of desperation he really felt seemed to be the right touch.

"Draco," Bella crooned, arms outstretched. The heavy rings on her fingers winked in the afternoon light. Her knife's edge smile was tight. "You're my blood. Of course. This stays between us. We've all had…indiscretions in our youth."

Meldy, looking a little worse for wear with a newly blossomed black eye and bleeding nose, swayed a little on her feet. But she watched her master as he allowed himself to be folded into his aunt's bony embrace.

"I'll even help you, love," she reassured him, breath tickling his hair. "We'll make a show of it. It's only what that little bitch deserves –"

"Meldy, now!"

Bella only had a second to push Draco away and turn to the elf, whipping her wand out from her sleeve. She wasn't fast enough and soon crumpled to the ground, the elf having stunned her.

"Good work," he murmured. "Can you untie Hermione? I need to get my wand."

"Yes, master," squeaked the elf.

He took the stairs two at a time then dashed up them again, wand in hand. By the time he reached the top, Meldy had finished with the last of the ropes and had summoned tea. Draco thanked the elf, then dismissed her, ordering her to care for her wounds immediately and rest. When they were alone he turned to Hermione.

She was massaging her wrists, where the rope had cut into her skin. It was easy to see the marks. No doubt they would last days. Draco noticed that she'd tugged the sleeve of her jumper down, once again hiding her scar.

He knelt before her, touching her cheek gently. She winced.

"I wish I'd thought to ask Meldy to send another elf back with Murlap essence," he said softly. "But I think this will do. _Episky."_ The gashes in her skin knit closed, leaving nothing but crusted black blood. _"Turgo."_

Hermione sat back, evading his touch as she lifted a hand to her newly healed cheek. Draco didn't budge, chest brushing her trembling knees, waiting. The witch before him closed her eyes to take a few steadying breaths. When they open they are hard and clear.

He strokes her cheek again, tenderly, taking in her gaze. There is fury in her. Fury – and fear. He had not protected her. And worse, she hadn't been able to protect herself. He knew the feeling of helplessness too well. Knew it must burn at her as it burns at him. She may resent him for being her captor, but they were in the same boat. Both of them, trapped and powerless against forces that were unsurmountable.

There was not much he could offer. "I'm sorry," he said, thumb tracing her jawline. She rolled her head, pulling away from his hands. But Draco held her firm, using his other hand to keep her head still. "Hermione. This won't happen again. I promise you."

She did not cry. Wordless as ever she stared into him, daring. _How?_

She turned to Bellatrix, a heap on the floor, then looked back to Draco. His mouth sets in a grim line. Rising briefly, he moved to crouch before his aunt. One last look at Hermione and he uttered the spell.

_"Obliviate."_

Draco returned when he finished with his aunt. He'd put her to bed after removing her memory, summoning an elf to inform them that his aunt had overindulged in a few of the family's finer vintages, to prepare a hangover potion for when she awoke. Then he returned to the tower.

Hermione was in bed. She'd sobbed for five minutes straight after he left, clutching the broken skin of her scar. She'd been so frightened. For months death had seemed like a release from the aftermath of her loss. After staring it straight in the face in the form of Bellatrix Lestrange, she wasn't sure if that was the case anymore.

When the witch had appeared, clutching Meldy by the throat, Hermione had nearly found her voice. Backing against the wardrobe, she cursed the room for removing her ability to do wandless magic. Bellatrix had tossed the squirming house-elf aside as one might flick away an unpleasant insect. The elf landed on the floor beside the pair of blue armchairs and did not move. Hermione felt ill, seeing the small crumpled form.

"Well," Bellatrix breathed. "I knew my nephew was keeping secrets. But this more than a secret. His own personal mudblood."

Bella scanned the room, taking in the lived-in appearance. The fire blazing merrily, the rumbled sheets, leftover dinner bowls on the table. She ran a finger along the footboard of the bed, eyes narrowing.

"He's got quite the cozy set up for you, doesn't he? My, my. He's even got his own house-elf waiting on you." The witch spun to face Hermione, hands going to her hips. "Why would he do this for a little leech such as yourself?"

She was paralyzed against the wardrobe as Bellatrix stalked forward, bending to hold Hermione's chin, forcing her head up. Staring into the girl's eyes, she did not seem to like what she saw there.

"Potter's little friend." The elder witch shook her head. "Dawlish swore you'd died in the field with that rat-faced Weasley. It looks like someone snuck you out. I remember you." She'd torn at the sleeve of Hermione's left arm, examining her own handiwork. "Ah, that's healed nicely."

The younger witch twisted her limb away. Bellatrix pressed down, hard, until Hermione stopped squirming.

"Oh, he would not have done this out of the goodness of his heart," Bella whispered. "You're a mere plaything, aren't you? His own little toy. Well, we cannot have _that."_

Without another word, the Death Eater was yanking the younger witch forward by the neck and shoving her into the chair nearest the unconscious elf. With a wave of her wand and maniacal grin, thick black cords snaked themselves around Hermione's wrists and ankles, cinching tightly. Bella used a napkin, leftover from lunch, to gag the younger witch, then leaned against the fireplace to examine her work.

"Draco, Draco," Bellatrix sighed, seemingly to herself. "The boy will stick his cock into anything. It simply will not do. He's the future of our new world, mudblood. We cannot have him hiding away up here with you. And we certainly cannot risk any of your spawn – he might get too attached. I would dispatch you myself, but then what kind of aunt would I be? No, this is a teaching moment. Draco needs to suffer the consequences, and you – you'll just suffer, I'm afraid."

Shortly after that little speech and after Bella had seen to her previous handiwork, Draco had arrived for tea.

He promised it wouldn't happen again. Hermione wasn't sure of the context of his life outside of this room, but clearly he'd been acting suspicious enough to attract his aunt's attention. Surely this wasn't a mere fluke. Bella might be taken care of, for now, but what of next time? He couldn't Obliviate every single Death Eater. He couldn't keep her here forever, either. What was his end game?

By the time Draco returned her face was dry. She was still in bed, facing the windows, back to him. He eased into the room, sat on the edge of the mattress, waiting for her. Hermione tensed briefly, curling in on herself a little further.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

She felt him reach out, fingers brushing her hip. Jumping slightly, his aunt's words came back to her. _Plaything._

In the months she'd been a guest in the Manor, Draco had never been untoward. Awkward, yes. Irritable, certainly. But he'd kept their physical contact to a minimum. There was nothing to suggest that he mean to use her in any way – and why would he? Saving her didn't mean he was suddenly over this repulsion of muggleborns. He'd simply felt guilty.

But now that the thought had been cast into her mind she felt wary. Would he expect that kind of gratitude someday?

As if reading her thoughts, Draco spoke softly. "Those things she said – about, using you. I – I'd never want that from you. It's just her instinct, to assume that I'd do something so twisted. Because she would. They all would. And she couldn't think of another reason as to why you would be here, so of course…." He let the unspoken words linger for a moment before continuing. "I didn't get you out of there just to rape you, Hermione. I don't know why, exactly, I did what I did. But it wasn't to take advantage of you. "

Processing these words, silence stretched between them. After several moments, she rolled over on the mattress to face him. Draco waited, letting her hesitate before she motioned for him to lie next to her. He kicked off his shoes then sank onto the space beside her, laying on his back and looking up into the shadowy rafters ahead. Wordlessly, he placed his open hand between them. Hermione laced her fingers through his as she too stared upwards. Exhaling slowly, she forced herself to relax.

For the first time in a long time, she slept without dreams.

**-XXX-**


	4. Chapter 4

**-XXX-**

On December 25th, Draco stumbled up the stairs and knocked on the door for several moments before realizing that Hermione could not, in fact, answer it. He let himself in, grinning broadly at the girl who sat beside the fire.

Brows raised, Hermione assessed the wizard, swaying slightly on his feet, coming to the rightful conclusion that he was completely and utterly drunk. She turned back to her book. But the wizard wasn't having it.

"Happy Christmas!" He settled into the chair across from hers sloppily. "I brought you some pudding."

And indeed he had, miraculously, brought a saucer with a small slice on it. With a befuddled flourish he set it on the side table. "Go on!"

Somehow he also managed to produce a bottle of champagne from inside his dress robes. Tonight he'd forgone hiding his wand, so he transfigured her teacups into crystal flutes. They were a little lopsided. Hermione repressed a smile.

He was so rarely happy. There were a lot of things going on in his life that seemed to be stressful – her, for one, whatever task Voldemort had given him that seemed to keep Draco rather preoccupied, his mother's health and father's sanity. And while part of her hated herself for it, seeing him unabashedly joyful was nice.

As she sipped the bubbly wine, Draco spoke. "Today has been so peaceful I almost forgot." His smile was a little bitter. "Forgot about the war, forgot about him, everything. It just felt like any other Christmas."

Watching her pick at her pudding, a question occurred to him. "I know muggles celebrate Christmas. Your family must've. Did you do presents, the tree, everything? Oh, it's alright. I know you won't answer. It's just funny. We loath muggles. But this holiday isn't a wizarding one, even if you dress it up with magic. Yet even my family loves it."

Hemione ran a finger along the rim of her glass, eyes on the fire. He was right, it was strange. She'd often thought that too, this time of year, the oddity that was a wizarding Christmas.

"For my family, it's always been our one good day. A day of the year when we're just happy and nothing on the outside matters. I thought maybe, after this year that would change. But Mum worked hard to make it just the same."

She was thinking of her parents. They had a family tradition of opening one gift on Christmas Eve, right after mass. Then her mother made a big Christmas breakfast, with pear dutch pancakes and lots of sausages. Her parents would usually let her have a small glass of wine at dinner, too. She thought of Christmas at the Burrow with Mrs. Weasley's hand-knit sweaters, hot wassail, the homemade feast with crackers and lots of laughter. Hogwarts decked out with dozens of trees and real candles twinkling on the branch of each. Were they celebrating at Hogwarts this year? Some of her favorite Christmases had been the ones spent at Hogwarts, with Harry and Ron. Just the three of them had share some lovely, lazy days of gobstones, snowball fights, cocoa by the fire in the common room. And last Christmas, she and Harry had been alone in the blasted tent. It had been dreadful and lonely, yet they had been together at least. And they'd gone to Godrics Hollow and - and -

She'd been repressing these thoughts all day. But as Draco spoke, they came flooding back to her. He stopped abruptly, embarrassed.

"Hermione –"

Turning to him slowly, he appeared blurry to her. She realized that her eyes had gone teary and she was looking at him through watery eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. All the talk of the holidays seemed to have sobered him a little.

The witch shook her head, biting her lip. Helpless, Draco folded his hands into his lap. He'd made what ought to have been a small happiness into a mess.

A thought occurred to him. Reaching into his robes, Draco produced a small package, wrapped in silver paper and tied with a red bow. The bow was slightly crushed from having been pressed against his chest, but it still looked rather nice. He offered forth the gift. It wouldn't make anything better, but he hoped it might offer her a little more cheer.

Hermione accepted the small box, carefully removing the bow and setting it aside, then pulling back the tape. She moved at a snail's pace. Draco was beginning to feel impatient as she folded the paper neatly before finally opening the lid.

Nestled inside against the tissue paper were two things. The first was a finely crafted fountain pen, the kind made of a reddish swirling wood with a golden nib and trim. It had a nice weight to it. Hermione suspected it was an endless inked pen, charmed to never run out of ink. The second item in the box was a simple band of gold, patterned with scrolling vines. Hermione slipped it from the tissue paper and slid it onto the middle finger of the left hand. A little large at first, the metal heated briefly as it shrank to sit snugly against her skin.

"It's nothing big," Malfoy said, sounding almost embarrassed. "The pen is self-inking. If you press the top it will changes colors for you. See that jewel on top there? You can see the ink color there. And the ring was – it belonged to my Aunt Andromeda. Before she ran off. She left it behind with my mother. Don't worry, though, it's not magicked except for the fitting spell. And Mother won't notice it's missing, she hid it in the back of her jewelry chest. I just thought…."

To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure why he felt compel to give Hermione the ring. The pen made sense – she took notes on everything she read, even now, outside of school. Jewelry was a personal thing, something you gave someone with whom you shared a deep romantic or familial bond. Hermione was neither family nor a lover. But he'd come across the ring while lingering in his mother's drawing room one evening before dinner and noticed it as he opened the drawers of her velvet-lined jewelry box. Nestled in the back among the glittering baubles was the tarnished ring.

"Dromeda's," she said shortly when he picked it up. "I was borrowing it the week she –"

Narcissa cut off, averting her eyes. There was a story there, but she went back to brushing her long blond hair. Unlike her sister's it was untouched by age. Strange, as Narcissa Malfoy had faced her fair share of stress over the last four years.

Draco had made to set it back into the velvet slot. His mother spoke up.

"Keep it. It's just collecting dust there." There was a faux lightness to her voice.

So he'd pocketed it, thinking that it would look rather nice on Hermione's finger.

He'd been right. It did look lovely on her finger. She was twisting it, looking at how the light glinted off the worn gold in the firelight. Meldy had polished it repeatedly until he told her to stop, knowing that it wouldn't improve.

There was a peculiar expression on Hermione's face. She was still tearful. But it wasn't a sad countenance, not exactly. After thoroughly examining both of her gifts, she stood abruptly. Draco watched warily as she crossed the space between them. Quickly, she bent to hug the wizard. It was an awkward thing. Draco inhaled deeply as her face nestled into the crook of his neck. And then, as swiftly as it came about, the embrace was over and the witch was back in her armchair.

**-XXX-**

February had been a rather slow month for Draco, despite being short. There were few tasks on his plate at the moment, leaving him free to avoid the Ministry and Hogwarts, the two places from which his master reigns. He had heard that the Dark Lord had a fondness for the school, whispers that his only happy memories came from his time there as a student. He'd crowned himself official headmaster, though the Carrows saw to the day-to-day. A few teachers had stayed on, though many were in Azkaban.

He had not seen any of them since the final battle. None of his teachers would have been young enough to be considered "child-bearing." He supposed that it was someone else's job to try to talk them into oaths of loyalty.

Despite spending much of his time dealing with those who were in Azkaban, he'd not had the misfortune of having to actually go there himself. The prisoners were brought to him at the Ministry, where they met in a sort of conference room. He would offer them tea or coffee, which would be brought to them by a cheerful elf on a silver tray, elegantly appointed with a small bouquet of flowers and accompanied by biscuits. This small touch of civility would usually be enough to throw them off their guard.

Draco wasn't there to question, torture, or torment. He had one job – convince his peers that it was in their best interest to submit to Unbreakable Vow and partner with a more trustworthy member of society. This took a gentle touch. He was not always successful; many of his former classmates utterly loathed him and would never even consider his offer. Others were desperate enough, after six or so months surrounded by Dementors, to agree without much thought. Sometimes, if he could sense a wavering, they would have several "sessions," which might include meeting the person they would enter into a marriage contract with. That occasionally made things worse.

Those who refused him flat out faced two possible routes. Depending, some were returned to Azkaban for an opportunity to mull over their options. The Dark Lord was unforgiving, but in the face of a rapidly declining pureblood population, he was willing to give second chances. However, if the person was persistent enough, if it was made clear that they would never be persuaded, they faced the Dementor's kiss.

He tried to never put anyone to that fate.

Valentine's Day found him back at the Ministry after three days of peace at home. He arrived by Floo (which had been reinstated after the final battle, along with apparition), and the first person he spotted was Pansy, also arriving by Floo. She stepped out of her hearth and caught his eyes, mouth curling unpleasantly at the sight of him.

They'd broken up over the summer before seventh year. She added a considerable amount of stress to his already tense existence and he cared for her enough that he didn't want to see her caught up in the dark business already at hand. Needless to say, she had not taken it well – there was a lot of yelling, items thrown – but he felt at peace with his decision. Two years later it seemed Pansy had still not come to terms with it.

"Pansy," he said shortly by way of greeting as he stepped away from his hearth and made his way through the Atrium to the elevators.

Unfortunately, she too had to get to the lifts. Following, she glowered. "Draco."

He'd heard that she was working in International Relations, something that baffled him. "Diplomatic" was not a word one would use to describe his ex-girlfriend.

"How's work?" he ventured as she continued walking beside him.

"Fine," she snapped. "I suppose you're here to pair some nitwit up with a blood traitor."

So she was familiar with his career path post-graduation.

Coolly, he replied, "Why yes. Are you in the market for either?"

Pansy snorted. "I've already had a taste of both in dating you, thanks."

Draco chose to ignore the dig and kept walking. "Have a lovely day, Parkinson."

He stepped onto the next available lift, not caring where it was going, and watched the gate close in her pug-like face.

His encounter with Pansy and subsequent escape caused him to run a little late, which meant that he did not have an opportunity to read the file on his assignment for the day. The department secretary gave him a disapproving look as she handed him the paperwork, not approving of his tardiness. So with no knowledge of who he was meeting with today, Draco strode into the room and nearly dropped the file immediately.

Luna Lovegood sat at the table, blonde hair dirty and matted. Her lips were chapped to the point of bleeding, fingernails bitten to the quick. A dark purple bruise blossomed on her left cheek.

He gripped the file folder tightly as he drew a chair out from the table across from the younger witch. Her wide grey eyes remained on the tabletop, faintly glassy. Draco had a sinking feeling that high-end tea and a few nice words wouldn't convince one of Harry Potter's close friends to switch sides.

"Lovegood, right?" he said gently.

Without looking up she bobbed her head.

Plenty of witches and wizards had come before Draco in states of questionable sanity. After prolonged exposure to Dementors, it was to be expected. Luna was truly no different except –

She was the first true friend of Potter's he'd encountered. And that alone was enough to give him pause.

It could have been Hermione. Except they'd had no intention of letting her live. But if things were different, the person before him today might have been the bushy-haired Gryffindor, instead Loony Lovegood. Her glazed expression and disheveled appearance reminded him of the first weeks with Hermione. That thought sent a shiver through him.

"You were Ravenclaw, correct?"

Another nod. The wizard bit back a sigh. He didn't want to do this.

"Luna, we've seen potential in you. Despite what happened during the war, the Dark Lord recognizes you to be a strong witch. We need witches and wizards like you. Our survival against the muggles depends on it." He stopped, waiting for a reaction. When she didn't budge he continued. "We are proposing a deal, of sorts. We don't want someone as talented as you wasting away in Azkaban. If you would submit to an Unbreakable Vow and a marriage contract between a…ah, trustworthy member of society, we'd consider your actions during the war in the past."

At this Luna's eyes shifted upwards. Bloodshot grey orbs peered out from a curtain of filthy hair. Finally, she spoke. "You want me to marry one of your Death Eaters and make babies?"

"Yes," he said. This question had been posed before.

Soft-spoken Luna simply shook her head.

Draco sighed.

**-XXX-**

That evening he took tea with Hermione. In honor of the holiday, Meldy had cut the sandwiches into little hearts and served red and pink iced biscuits. Upon their presentation, Hermione smiled faintly.

Draco told her of his day, leaving out the parts regarding Luna. Instead, he complained about Pansy.

"Can you imagine her working in the International office?" he scoffed. "She's hardly ambassadorial. I mean, she could barely tolerate students in outside houses."

The witch across the table gave him a scathing glance. _"Like you were any better, Malfoy?"_

"I had friends in other houses!"

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Really!" He listed a few names. They were mostly Hufflepuffs he'd had astronomy with in third year. Not exactly friends but…friendly? Hufflepuffs were friendly to everyone, though. Changing the subject, he picked up a biscuit, mulling it over.

"Do you remember second year, when Lockheart had the hall all decked out? And he brought in those dwarves dressed as cupids?"

She brightened a little at this memory, smiling at the thought of the gruff-looking dwarves dressed in golden wings, singing off-key tunes throughout the halls to unsuspecting victims. Draco even manages to coax a laugh out when he recited from memory the poem Pansy sent him.

_White gold, I hope we grow old_

_Together me and my Draco_

_With this love that we make-o…_

**-XXX-**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received a review last chapter that indicated Draco was abusive and Stockholm Syndrome stories weren't appropriate. Hermione is hardly swooning at this point and is actively planning an escape. As someone who is a feminist but also into the trope of an unlikely pair being trapped together and falling in love, I understand the dislike of a heroine being controlled in an abusive manner. Which is what isn't happening here - Draco rescued Hermione from certain death and is keeping her until he can figure out what to do next. She's definitely being kept against her will - arguably for her own protection from a misguided but well-intentioned Draco - but he is hardly trying to seduce her.
> 
> Anyways. If you feel uncomfortable, you certainly don't have to continue reading. But I am deliberately writing a story without a controlling asshole Draco and instead a Draco who is coming to terms with the violent ideology fed to him in his youth, who is trying to do the right thing in a fraught situation. And a Hermione who is sympathetic to the person who rescued her, but determined to have her freedom to navigate surviving a new world order that is entirely against her and what she represents in every way.

**—XXX—**

The morning after Valentine's Day his mother greeted him with a small heart-shaped box beside his breakfast plate. The Firewhisky-filled chocolates were a lovely surprise and an instigator of guilt.

"We missed you last night," she said, giving him a light pout. She was perhaps the only person who could tease him. "You didn't show up for dinner and we had a rather special meal planned for the occasion."

"Sorry," he said, popping one chocolate in his mouth. "I thought you and father might like an evening together."

Something a little weak flashed in Narcissa's usually steely eyes. She merely smiled, smoothing the skirts of her pale blue silk dressing gown. "We feel like we rarely see you, my love. Though perhaps you were with someone?"

The note of hope in her questions sends another twinge of guilt down his spine. "Ah, no."

Narcissa patted her arm before she reached for a tray of strawberries, adding a few to her son's plate next to his toast. "I know you are busy, but you're only young once. Make the most of it."

She might have been a little more excited to know he spent most evenings in the company of a young lady — it would scandalize her, however, to know the witch in question. Hermione Granger was intelligent, kind, witty, and strong-willed - the very things Narcissa wanted for her son, for the next Malfoy mistress. But her blood and her ideological differences would have made his mother have a fretful conversation with him about what he needed in an ideal mate. Namely, not a mudblood.

"I will endeavor to try," he said finally.

When he stood up from the breakfast table he pressed a kiss against her soft cheek. She smelled of gardenia, soap, and roses. It was the same scent she'd always carried, and it made him feel like a child again, safe and comforted by her presence. Narcissa smiled up at him, squeezing his wrist once before releasing and watching him go.

**—XXX—**

A week later he met with Luna again. She looked a little more alert this time, hair pushed back from her face and eyes clear. It did not bode well for his assigned task.

"Tea, Ms. Lovegood?" he offered upon her entrance. This time he'd arrived in enough time to prepare and have tea waiting.

She did not respond, simply peering at him as the Auror who escorted her shuffled them both inside. Gnarl, one of the stupider Auror's in Draco's experience, grunted in greeting before pushing Luna into a seat. He made to leave before Draco called him back.

"Her cuffs, if you please. The last few have been stuck, I'll need you to remove them."

Gnarl turned back, clearly irritated. He removed his wand from his pocket along with his keys, setting his wand on the table as he made to unlock Luna's heavy manacles, careful to make sure it was beyond Lovegood's limited reach.

While Gnarl fiddled with the jammed lock, Draco quietly picked up the other wizard's wand and murmured a soft, nearly indiscernible spell. _"Stupify."_

The Auror sank, half-landing in Luna's lap. The stunned witch jerk back, letting him roll onto the floor. His head fell against the tabletop with a sickening sound before he finally hit the carpet. She stared, wide-eyed at Draco, who was a little breathless.

"We've not got much time," he said, bending to open the cuffs around her wrist. When the heavy iron was released, he threw them onto the table with a loud clatter before turning back to the witch, handing her the wand and pulling a small vial and a flask out of his robes.

She looked between the wand and the Death Eater before her, clearly wary and more than a little confused. "What – what's going on?"

"This is Polyjuice," he said shortly as he unstopped the flask that was filled with the muddy-looking potion. "And this is one of Pansy Parker's hairs. You're going to take this –" The concoction sizzled slightly as he dropped the hair into it. "And get out. Get to the Atrium. You can apparate from there with his wand. I'd recommend getting out of Britain immediately."

He handed her the flask. "One mouthful. It should last five hours and there is enough for another ten."

She held the silver flask limply, still dazed. "Why are you doing this?"

Draco couldn't really answer that question. He wasn't sure when he became someone who saved people, but it was what he did now, occasionally, when the mood struck. So he said instead, "It doesn't matter. Go on. It'll taste dreadful, but better than staying here."

She nodded and without another word took a tentative sip. Making a face, she wiped her lips. "You're right. It does taste awful."

"That's Pansy," he said grimly. "She's out for the rest of the day – stomachache. But no one will think twice if you head directly to the Atrium. Once the transformation stops you can transfigure yourself some clothes. Then you'll need to Obliviate both of us."

It was disconcerting talking to someone midway through their Polyjuice transformation. Luna's hair was sucked back up into her head and going from angelic blonde wavy locks to a deep chestnut bob. Her nose was becoming snub-ish, and she was getting shorter.

"Where will I go?"

He hesitated. "There are rumors that Longbottom is at Durmstrang." Her eyes grew bright and Draco said quickly, "But they're only rumors. Still. Northern Europe is a safe bet. They're not fans of our new Dark Lord."

Luna tested the flex of Gnarls wand before charming her clothes into something more professional. Her dark blue suit wasn't precisely Pansy's style and it would be strange for anyone who knew Pansy to see her face bare of makeup, but it would get her through to the outside. When she was ready, she faced Draco with a curious expression on her face.

"You weren't like this in school," she observed softly. "You'd never help anyone like me. Why now?"

"Does it matter?" Exasperation edged into his voice.

"Why?" For a slip of a girl she was firm, crossing her arms. Her expression was hard, not an unfamiliar set of Pansy's face.

"It just isn't right," he finally managed. "I didn't know it was going to be – like this. Seeing people I've grown up with torn apart, killed…for what, I don't even know anymore. There is only so much I can do. And you were never going to agree to any of this, it would've been the kiss for you."

This seemed to satisfy her. Picking up Gnarl's wand again, she faced him. Draco reminded her, grimly, of what she needed to do. Obliviate them, take the lift to the first floor for the apparition booths, and get out of London. She had Gnarl's wand, all of the Sickles and Knuts in his pockets, and a vague sense of where she ought to go. It was all he could give her.

With one final look, Luna raised her stolen wand and lifted it to her former classmate's head.

_"Obliviate."_

**—-XXX—**

He didn't know how he managed to make it up the stairs and slumped before the door. Nor could he figured out how he made it inside. Sheer will, probably.

The Dark Lord had not been pleased with the news that Luna Lovegood had perished as a result of her refusal to alter her allegiance. He had expressed that displeasure to Draco personally, which is why the young wizard was currently bleeding into the woolen rug at the base of Hermione's bed.

It was nearly one in the morning, but her bedside lamp was still on and she flew out of bed the second he sank onto the floor. Rolling him onto his back, she gasped audibly at the sight of his face. Blood, burns, and bruises covered every inch. She only knew him by the fact that he was able to unlock the door. His white-blonde hair, usually immaculately swept back, was stained with blood, sweat, and grime. He was shuddering with residual pain. The curses the Dark Lord used and the intent behind them had a tendency to echo long after they were cast. Draco could barely keep his eyes open, head lolling as he struggled to sit up. His vision was impaired, everything tinged with black edges. Blinking didn't help.

She left his side briefly and returned with a basin of water and a clean cloth. When she set them down on the rug beside him, her hand nudged something that had fallen to the floor. Reaching blindly she recovered the item, holding it aloft in the yellow light of the lamp.

It was Draco's wand.

She froze.

Draco, eyes still unfocused, saw what she held. He lifted one shaking hand.

"Hermione," he managed. "I need –"

Hermione bit her lip. She nodded shortly, then called to the room in a hoarse but strong voice. "Meldy."

The elf appeared with a faint _pop,_ eyes immediately getting as wide as saucers at the sight of her injured master. They became even wider to see his guest brandishing a wand.

"He needs Murlap, Wiggenweld, a calming draught, a blood replenishing potion, and we'll need water and bandages." Her tone was steady as she spoke to the elf. "And whatever other painkiller potions you have lying around."

The house-elf nodded, dumbfounded, and evaporated with another _pop._ Hermione turned back to her patient. Lifting the wand, she began intoning low incantations. The quaking stopped, though the pain remained. _Crucio_ lingered like that. If done by a powerful enough wizard, a person could feel the ache of the curse for weeks after. If they lived that long, of course.

After the elf returned with the necessary potions and they were administered, Hermione set about healing the various cuts and bruises. Draco watched from his prone position as she carefully applied cooling spells to his inflamed skin, then as she used a wet cloth to clean his face of blood. He winced when she brushed against a particularly tender cheek. She drew back, frowning.

"Fracture," she said simply. Taking careful aim with his wand, she uttered the spell. " _Emendo."_

The feeling of bone stretching was unlike any other. If he'd not been struggling with numerous issues, Draco might have cried out. Instead he clenched one hand - the fingers newly healed - and waited. After a strange tingling, the feeling faded. She moved on to other parts of his head, carefully examining each inch for injury.

"Hermione," he breathed as she worked around his temples. His body was finally relaxing, the pain and tension fading as the Wiggenweld and calming draught worked its way through his bloodstream. He could think with a little more clarity. The black had left the edges of his vision.

She hesitated in her motion, avoiding his gaze. Draco's grey eyes were bright, bloodshot. He didn't understand her. Why she was finally speaking now. Why she was being so gentle. She had his wand. She had her chance. If she wanted, she could leave him right now.

"What happened?" she asked, turning back to her work. "Who did this?"

The wizard wheezed out a laugh. "Who do you think? The Dark Lord."

Hermione paused. "Why?"

"You are suddenly very talkative," he groused, struggling to sit up. She gripped his shoulders but was shaken off as he propped himself against the footboard. "If I'd known being beaten would get you to open up, I'd have done it months ago."

She didn't respond, simply stared at him with wide chocolate-colored eyes. Waiting for something besides his nonsensical complaints. She reminded him so much of McGonagall when the class had gotten rowdy, simply shutting up and waiting for her pupils to feel the inevitable sense of shame that would eventually lead to quiet.

Draco sighed. "I disappointed him. Something didn't go to plan. He was displeased."

Her lip quivered. He felt the impulse to reach out and take her hand. Dark eyes clouded further at the mention of the man who had destroyed the world she had known. Her fear was palpable, yet she was setting it all aside to help him.

Without a word, she turned the wand towards him, handle side offered. Draco accepted it, masking his shock. This was her one opportunity to rid the world of him, to set herself free and unleash her wrath upon the world. If it were anyone else they would have stunned him and ran. That wasn't Hermione's style. And here she was, returning his wand after healing him.

"It is good to hear your voice," he said quietly as she started packing up the mess laid before them.

There was no reply. Draco bit back another sigh. He watched as she put the stopper in the potion bottles, trying to think of what to say next. She did not seem inclined to conversation, even after these long, silent months. But he wasn't about to let her withdraw into herself again. The Malfoy heir had waited, somewhat patiently, for her to come alive again. This was - in its own terrible way - progress.

"Hermione." He reached for her, hand going to her left cheek, gently forcing her to face him. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. But a moment later she moved away, standing over the basin to wring out the cloth that was now the color of poppies. The water turned a sickly red-brown. Draco flexed his empty hands.

"I think most everything that can be healed," she said. It was surreal to hear her speak. Her voice was thin, high-pitched, a little hoarse, but he recognized the impertinent, clipped tone. She was businesslike, quickly putting distance between them with her words. "The bruises are still there, and you might want to shower. It was hard to tell, with the blood -"

He caught her hand, straining from where he sat on the floor, forcing her to look at him again. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry he did this to you," she replied softly, eyes turning back to her work. She squeezed his fingers once and resumed her cleaning. "No one deserves this. Not even you."

This made him laugh. It hurt, and he winced. "I don't know if that is true," he managed breathlessly. "But thank you, nonetheless."

Hermione draped the cloth onto the side of the basin and made to kneel before where he sat, still propped against the foot of her bed. Draco made to hold her hand again. It was warm and soft. This time she let him.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you. I knew Meldy couldn't have handled much of this on her own, and my parents…." He drifted off, staring at their combined fingers. She was wearing the band he'd given her for Christmas. "

"What did you do? Why was he angry with you?"

"I made a mistake," he said shortly. "One that couldn't be avoided. He's taken his pound of flesh though, so he ought to be sated."

Hermione nodded, seeming to be considering something.

"It has nothing to do with you," he added, realizing that could be her primary concern. Immediately he made to comfort her. "Just work. A mistake at the ministry. No one ought to start sniffing around here."

Her expression didn't change, making Draco think perhaps that was not what she'd been thinking.

"Hermione –" he began again, but a faint _pop_ broke the moment.

It was Meldy, bearing a heavy tray of tea, wine, rolls, and the leftover roast his family must've had for dinner. A purple bottle with a golden stopper also sat on one corner – a dreamless sleep draught. With careful balance, the elf carried the silver platter over to them, setting it on a nearby footstool.

"Does Master Malfoy require any additional healing?" the elf squeaked.

"No, I think not Meldy," Hermione answered with a warmth in her voice entirely unfamiliar to Draco. "But this looks wonderful, thank you. You can take away the wine, he shouldn't have it while on a blood replenishing potion. It thins the blood and negates the effects."

Master Malfoy made a face as the elf removed the green bottle. "I'd rather wine than a dreamless sleep potion. They've similar effects, anyways."

The witch gave him an incredulous look. "Absolutely not."

"Stuffy Granger," he murmured as the elf passed him a plate heavy with roast.

**-XXX-**


	6. Chapter 6

—XXX—

His sleep was without incident. Draco woke in the narrow bed in the northern tower. His eyes focused on the rafters ahead. The crisscross of beams created a strange mosaic until they faded into black as the roof extended up, up, up. He blinked back morning light before turning on his side.

Hermione was reclined in an armchair, snoring softly. He smiled at the sight of her. Moving carefully so the bed did not creak and give himself away, he slid off the mattress and moved to stand over her. The cream-colored woolen blanket she was wrapped in had move down to her legs. Draco tucked it back around her. No doubt that the witch would wake with a sore neck.

Meldy arrived with breakfast. Draco buttered a piece of toast as the elf fussed over the state of the bed. Wiping his lips, he bent to kiss Hermione's brow swiftly before he quietly exited the room.

—XXX—

The press of his lips felt like a brand on skin. She wasn't sure she hated it as much as she ought to.

As soon as the door snapped shut, Hermione's eyes flew open, startling the house-elf. Meldy nearly dropped the sugar bowl.

"Sorry," the witch said sheepishly.

"It's alright miss," replied the elf, bowing quickly. "Will you be having breakfast, miss?"

"Yes, please. But I'll get it," Hermione said hastily as the elf made to prepare a plate. She stood, feeling her uncomfortable sleep deep in her muscles as she stretched.

Today Meldy had brought toast with butter and strawberry jam, eggs, and sausages. Normally this would be too much for Hermione, who had quite lost her appetite since her forced move into Malfoy Manor. But today she was meeting the day with new vigor. She would need the energy.

As she shoveled fired eggs into the mouth with little thought, Hermione watched the house-elf tidy the room. Despite the witch's best efforts, they'd left a mess after last night's activities. The elf did not seem irritated by the untidiness. Indeed, nothing seemed to bother Meldy, not Draco yelling, not Hermione's depression, not anything. She was a stark difference from Dobby – it was clear Meldy had little resentment for her place in life. Or if she did, she hid it well.

House-elves, in Hermione's experience, were often overlooked. Meldy was the only other living being in and out of this room aside from Draco. There was little doubt Draco trusted the elf, or at least kept a close eye on her. Which would make Hermione's task all the more difficult.

"Thank you for all of your help last night," she said after setting down her teacup. "It's clear Draco relies on you."

The elf beamed. "Thank you, Miss. I've been with the family since he was in nappies."

"He must trust you immensely."

The elf nodded. "Yes, miss. I am very lucky to have him as my master."

"And I'm fortunate as well." It was impressive that the words did not choke in her throat. It made it easier knowing, bitterly, that is was true. "He's taken great care of me. You both have."

Somehow, Meldy's smile becomes even stronger. Hermione had always been kind to her, but this was exceedingly generous praise. Not that the small elf didn't deserve it – she was a hard worker and clearly very loyal to her master.

Hermione continued, careful with her next words. "Meldy, when Master Malfoy brought me here, I had a few belongings with me and it seems as though they've been misplaced."

"Master Malfoy had your clothes disposed of, miss."

Her heart sank a little. She'd suspected as much – there was a lot of blood and grime on them, after all. Still keeping her tone light and airy, Hermione tried again. "Of course. But I was wondering if maybe there was anything else. I had a beaded purse I am very fond of, I'm hoping it survived."

She could tell immediately that Meldy knew of the bag. The smile wavered slightly. Not a good sign. But the witch went on.

"It was small, purple, a little old. Probably a silly thing to care about after so long, but it meant a lot to me. If you knew where it was –"

"Master Draco said not to tell," the elf whispered, eyes wide with fear.

So Malfoy had it! There was little doubt he knew what was inside; if he had any sense he would have carefully examined all of her belonging upon taking her into captivity.

Hermione swallowed. "Meldy, that purse is very important to me. If there is any way you can get it to me, I – I'll free you."

The elf's eyes were the size of dinner plates. For a moment, Hermione feared she'd made a huge mistake – that Meldy was too loyal, that the offer of freeing her was an insult and not something to be coveted. A tense breath passed before Meldy spoke, the pitch of her voice nearly ear-splitting.

"You would free Meldy?"

"Yes," Hermione said cautiously. "If you could get me that purse and help me get out of here, I'll free you."

Meldy hesitated. "Master Draco would be –"

"He wouldn't be your master anymore!" Hermione cried. "You would be free. Help me get the purse. If everything is inside, I can find a way to leave. And I swear, before I go, I'll free you. But you would have to promise not to tell him."

She could see the elf thinking through the offer. "How quickly will it take Miss to escape? Master Draco will notice the purse missing, in time."

Hermione quickly ran through scenarios. "You wouldn't have to get it until I'm ready. You could….you could look inside it for me. Make sure it has the things I need. Then when the time is right, I'll tell you when. As soon as it's in hand, I'll free you. So if things go wrong, you can be long gone."

This made sense. If Hermione failed to get out, at least the elf would not be punished. She couldn't believe Draco would hurt the poor creature, now, but a year ago she wouldn'tve been surprised.

Meldy still looked nervous. "Where will Miss Granger go?" she whispered.

"I – I haven't gotten that far yet." Hermione faltered briefly before quickly saying, "But no matter. The first part is getting out. Do we have a deal, Meldy?"

She held out her extended hand, trying to smile. The elf examined the offered limb then tentatively accepted Hermione's larger fingers in her own.

"Deal," squeaked the house-elf.

—XXX—

Lucius's skin had taken on a waxy sheen that reminded her of Bella's. Unlike Bella, he'd only spent a few months in Azkaban. Narcissa wondered if his complexion came as a result of the stress of the last two years. It was strange — when their home was taken over by the Dark Lord, Lucius had gotten painfully pale and thin. His eyes became glassy and he reached for the brandy and scotch decanters more than usual. Now that things have gone back to a sort of normal — or their house was unoccupied by Death Eaters, anyways — white-streaked his hair. He looked ill almost always.

He was studiously ignoring his wife while they sat in the parlor for tea, going over that day's deliveries from their eagle owl. Narcissa sipped her tea placidly, watching her husband of twenty-four years. She hadn't said anything when he'd added a healthy measure of brandy into his afternoon Earl Grey.

"We ought to start preparing for spring," she said when Lucius paused to reach for a shortbread. "I think you and Draco need some new, warmer weather dress robes. And the house needs airing out. Your office needs a deep cleaning."

"Yes," he murmured as he picked up another letter. "Whatever you think is best, dear."

She tried again. "Has Draco said anything about work lately?"

"I've barely seen the boy."

"He is at dinner nearly every night." The accusation was a mild one — family dinners were customary in the household. Lately, Lucius had been gone from the dining room more nights than not. Narcissa did not mention that Draco had failed to appear at 5 o'clock the previous evening. and she'd taken a tray in her drawing-room instead.

Her husband didn't respond. Pursing her lips, Narcissa rang for the house-elf.

"You ought to talk to him," she said once the tea-things had been cleared away. "He's seemed rather distant lately. I get the impression that he's had some kind of trouble at work."

"Perhaps it's that Parkinson girl," Lucius said, folding up the last letter in the pile. "She got that promotion, you know, I think it might have bothered him. But honestly, Cissy, I don't know why he's bothering with it at all. It'd be better that he learn more of the family business."

Narcissa folded her hands in her lap. "Bella insisted that he would be a good influence on encouraging others in his generation. They need to see not everyone who supports the Dark Lord is a lumbering oaf like Goyle."

Lucius grunted his agreement, taking another sip from his teacup. The delicate bone china was patterned with deep purple roses, a wedding gift from Narcissa's aunt on her father's side. She could hardly believe the ugly things had lasted as long as they had, but they were enchanted to keep beverages warm. Lucius was fond of them despite the disagreeable pattern.

"It's been nearly a year," Lucius said after a pause. "I think that surely it would be for the best that he pull back from working such a…pedestrian job and start learning more about running the estate. Being a Malfoy is a job all its own."

"I know, dear," she sighed. "But I do think he enjoys his work, gives him a sense of accomplishment. Something to do outside of the house. I fear he's a little lonely."

They both thought of the friends he'd lost in the war. The innocence that had been snatched from him when Lucius was sent away. Narcissa had wept to see the mark emblazoned on her son's skin. She'd known it would come about one day, just not when he was sixteen, so young….

"Yes," her husband said faintly. "I suppose he might be."

"Talk to him," Narcissa said, her voice a little stronger. "Tonight, at dinner. Perhaps, if he spends a few more months at the Ministry, he might feel more inclined to resign after he's made a year of it. I do think that his working there was primarily Bella's scheme. It would be good for him to — to —"

Be out of sight of the Dark Lord. But of course, she didn't say it aloud. Lucius's grey eyes met her for the first time all afternoon and he gravelly nodded, understanding what went unsaid.

—XXX—

"Master," the elf said, inclining her head.

Draco felt a little guilty, summoning Meldy so late. He wasn't sure of her schedule — something, he reflected, that was rather pig-headed of him — and hoped he had not roused her.

"I know it is late," he began. "But I have a small favor to ask. For the next few days, I want you to hang around Diagon Alley. I want to hear whatever rumors are about regarding the Order of the Phoenix."

Meldy immediately looks stricken, but she merely waits for more instruction.

He continued. "I especially want to know where people are suggesting they're hiding. I've heard a lot of rumors and I want you to report back to me what seems to be the common gossip."

"Yes, Master Draco," she said, nose quivering.

He supposed, for a small elf who rarely left the family estate, the assignment was a bit foreboding. Yet she was the only one he could trust, his personal elf. Meldy answered only to him, unlike the others in the Manor.

His brush with the Dark Lord's wrath reminded him of just how tenuous his safety was in this new world order. His demise might break his family's hearts, but it could be extremely dangerous for Hermione, who would be left with only Meldy should he die. He realized that for her own safety she needed to get out of Britain and preferably in the care of those who were once her allies. If he could get a hint of where they might be hiding, it would be a start.

"Thank you," he said awkwardly. "Let me know what you hear."

She bowed again and disappeared with a pop.

—XXX—

Two weeks after his failure with Lovegood, people have finally stopped whispering anytime he entered a room at the Ministry. It was all he could do to not roll his eyes. He was hardly the first to suffer the Dark Lord's wrath after a mistake. Pansy had clearly been gloating, as every time she caught sight of him, she beamed widely. He doubted it was a thing she did in support.

He still wasn't sure what happened. The last thing he remembered was Gnarl bringing Lovegood in, manacled, and stooping to remove the cuffs, then –

Nothing.

He'd woken up slumped over the conference room desk, drooling slightly on the file folders scattered across its wooden surface. Lovegood was gone.

Poor Gnarl had seen the worst of it – it was his wand the witch had snatched and presumably used to stun them both. An examination of Draco's wand revealed nothing unusual, but Gnarl's missing wand had been more than enough to merit a personal punishment by the Dark Lord himself. Draco shuddered at the thought of Gnarl's screams. The poor man would be in St. Mungos for at least another fortnight.

The embarrassment was nothing. The gossip mildly irritated him. His father's disappointment was practically a joke. No, what troubled Draco was not remembering. Surely it hadn't been as simple as the girl snatching up an unattended wand?

His mother, for one, didn't care either way. Unlike Draco's aunt and father, she immediately made to see him when she heard the news. Thankfully he was back in his room by that point. She did not seem to register the fact that he was remarkably well-tended to for someone who'd been virtually tortured mere hours earlier.

Narcissa Malfoy, who was cool with nearly everyone she met, clucked over her only child the morning after his punishment by the Dark Lord's hand. She whispered things that were utterly traitorous, things she would tell no one else. But she was tired of this life, the fear that came with the new world order. He had to make her stop when she said something to the effect of wishing Harry Potter had survived and defeated the Dark Lord.

"This hardly feels like being on top," she murmured one afternoon when he joined her in her drawing-room after work. "I'm just as fearful of our downfall as when he was looming over our house."

Privately, Draco agreed. Their life had been simpler after the Dark Lord's downfall when his father had been "biding his time," when the biggest trouble they dealt with were occasional Ministry raids.

"It's the price Father decided we were willing to pay," Draco replied, only a little bitterness entering his tone.

Narcissa snorted softly – a rare, unladylike sound for his mother. But she had her reasons. Ever since their home had been occupied and used as the headquarters of the movement against the Order, Narcissa had drifted from her husband. His actions had put them all in danger. Their standing in society be damned, their lives had been at risk and were still at risk. And for what?

The lady of Malfoy Manor did not think it a fair trade. Subsequently, the lord of the Manor was not often in his wife's company. Draco suspected that they had shared little than their usual dinnertime together, which was now wrought with tension. He knew (and hated himself for knowing) that they'd not shared a bedroom since Lucius was in Azkaban.

"Your father didn't truly consider the cost of his actions," she said coldly, setting her teacup down. The painted violets on its delicate porcelain surface shuddered. "He only saw what could be gained, not what could be lost. The Dark Lord is not loyal to those who follow him, yet expects it entirely from his followers. And he does not believe in mistakes."

Her eyes leveled with his. "But you know that by now, my love."

Draco knew exactly what kind of man his father followed.

—XXX—


	7. Chapter 7

**—** **XXX—**

A week after Hermione and Meldy had struck a bargain, the elf appeared at the foot of Hermione's bed breathless with excitement. She had finally found an opportunity to examine the purse.

"It is enchanted, miss," she said.

Hermione, who had awoken to the sound of the elf appearing in the room, rubbed her eyes as she sat up. "Bigger on the inside, yes. And undetectable. Well, nearly."

"You have a library in there," said Meldy, in awe.

Hermione felt a blush rise in her cheeks. "I needed to be prepared. So, it still has all of the books, that's good – what about the tent? Potion materials? Clothes?"

Meldy confirmed that the purse was intact. She agreed to stock up on food – canned goods, mostly, non-perishables, which were rare in a pureblood home. Hermione still didn't have a plan, exactly, but the possibilities that arose with access to her purse. If she could have an hour outside of the infernal tower and its magic-blocking runes, if Meldy could get her the purse, she could use wandless magic to apparate. She could flee to Europe or South America or Australia. She could be free.

There were many _if_ s to her vague, smoky outline of a plan. But it was a start.

"Meldy, could you bring me some maps from the library?" she asked before the elf left to retrieve breakfast. "Inconspicuous, of course."

"Yes, Miss, what kinds of maps are you wanting?" squeaked the house-elf.

Hermione hesitated. Where could she feasibly go that was safe?

"Northern Europe and Asia," she finally said, with a firmness she did not truly feel. "Anything that might hint at Durmstrang."

The Malfoys had once considered sending Draco there for schooling, until Narcissa had rejected the notion, not wanting her only child so far from home. Surely they had some information about the school lying around. The location was a close-guarded secret, but even a hint would help her.

With that, the elf bowed (something Hermione had repeatedly asked her not to do) and disappeared with a _"pop."_

**—** **XXX—**

Draco was relieved that after nearly eleven months Hermione had proven that she could speak. Her trauma had not been so much as to take away her voice, a voice that once used to drive him mad in daily in their shared classes. A voice, he realized, he rather liked.

She still was not speaking much. He arrived every day, punctually at 4 pm, usually to find her curled up in an armchair reading. Hermione had taken to murmuring a soft hello as he took up the seat beside her and would occasionally interject a question as he spoke of his day. Attempts to engage her in questions about herself were typically met with few words, though not unfriendly ones.

"Would you care to receive the paper?" he asked casually one day in April.

The witch scrutinized him over her teacup, lowering it slowly. "I would not mind, no," she answered. "But I doubt the Prophet is very accurate, nowadays. It was hardly a pillar of journalistic excellence two years ago. But it would be something to read, I guess."

He nodded. "I'll have Meldy bring one up, then, with breakfast. I never touch mine"

Her lips quirked at the admission. "Thank you."

There was a pause. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as he balanced his teacup, taking a long draw from the delicate china. The witch was biting her lip – it was clear she was hesitating in bringing something up.

"Do you think," Hermione began. "That we might be able to go outside?"

Draco's eyes moved towards the window, which was beaded with water from the current downpour.

"Not necessarily today," she continued quickly. "But when it is nicer out, do you think maybe we could…just for a little while? It's been so long since I've been outdoors."

The wizard hesitated. She asked so little of him. Yet it was not a small request. If they were found out, it would be both of their sorry necks. Still, he understood her longing. If they stayed on the grounds of the Manor, within the wards, in a more isolated area of the gardens, perhaps….

Taking a breath, Draco said, "I will consider it."

Her responding smile was enough to nearly make him agree right then and there. It was like none he'd ever seen, spreading across her normally drawn face. This was probably the smile she saved for a perfect score on her O. , the smile she gave herself when praised by a particularly prickly professor. Had she smiled like this all throughout their time in school? Had he merely missed it?

He refrained from summoning rain cloaks, however, contenting himself in her prospective happiness. Perhaps he could find a few other ways to make her smile.

**—** **XXX—**

The inquiry into Luna Lovegood's escape had thus far been relatively bureaucratic – which is to say, slow and burdened by paperwork. Aside from his initial account and the Dark Lord's "rebuke," Draco had not been privy to any other elements of the investigation. He'd nearly forgotten that there had been an active investigation until the crisp May afternoon he strode into his office to find Dawlish awaiting him.

Draco did not break his confident stride upon seeing the older wizard. "John," he said shortly. "What brings you to my department?"

"I've come to discuss the incident in February, Malfoy." Like Draco, Dawlish was getting right down to business. He was never one for the pleasantries and small talk that eased others into conversation.

Sitting at his desk, Malfoy frowned. Keeping his voice businesslike, he replied, "I gave my statement at the time, and I was quite thorough. Is there something that requires clarification?"

"Indeed, I wanted to see if perhaps some time might've cleared up the details for you."

"Ah yes, more time and distance must have surely given me more clarity." Sarcasm slid from his mouth like butter. Draco crossed his arms, brows raised.

Another thing he appreciated about the Auror was his blatant disregard for social rank. There would be many in a similar position who would stutter from such a severe response. Dawlish did not blink. Pulling forth a small notepad, he flipped through the pages before finding what he was looking for.

"You said that Lovegood probably attacked Gnarl while he was taking off her cuffs. Why would he have done that?"

"If they've shown themselves to be docile, I always keep my clients unrestrained. The room is warded and locked from the outside. It gives them a sense of equality. Humanity."

Dawlish took note before his next question. "But Lovegood was part of Potter's inner circle. She's known to be a formidable witch. Seems a bit foolish to me to risk it."

Draco's temper flared but he kept his tone even. "As I've said, the room is secure. We have wandless magic wards up, though Lovegood is not known for being proficient in it. We've never had an issue before. If anyone should be called into question, I should think it would be Gnarl for keeping his wand exposed and within the girl's reach."

"That's the thing." Dawlish was frowning. "Gnarl is one of my own men. He's a bit thick on a few things, but he's a creature of habit. He doesn't keep his wand anywhere it could be snatched, prefers to store it up his sleeve or in an inside coat pocket. Doesn't make him the fasted draw, but he's never lost it yet. So it's surprising to me that Miss Lovegood would have been able to reach it, especially with cuffs."

The younger wizard's mind was racing a million miles a minute. "As I stated in my interview, I do not recall much, after being obliviated. I cannot say for certain, it was merely a guess. Perhaps Gnarl did remove the wand properly."

"Well, we can't ask him now, can we?" Dawlish's voice was level but his eyes were dark. "Not after the Dark Lord interrogated him."

Gnarl was currently in St. Mungos. It was unclear if he would ever awaken from whatever curse Draco's master had seen fit to use on the poor stupid Auror. Draco nearly felt guilty. Nearly. Gnarl was a cruel oaf.

"I'm afraid I won't be of much use either." He settled back in his chair, adjusting a quill that sat atop one of the dragon hide notebooks.

"But a bit more than Gnarl." Dawlish also sat back. He wasn't one to exude cheer, but now he was looking especially morose. "That's the one last piece in the puzzle you see. How did the girl get the wand if she was manacled in a warded, locked room, with two capable wizards? We know she used a disillusionment charm to make it to the atrium and escape into the city, we know she stunned and obliviated you both. But how did she get that wand in the first place?"

Draco shrugged. "I cannot say. It is something I ask myself every day. The best I can guess is she saw an opportunity when Gnarl was distracted and took it. I hardly think she managed to overpower him. It seems we underestimated her."

"She's no Granger," Dawlish agreed. "But she was in Ravenclaw. Still. I cannot seem to piece it together."

At Hermione's name, Draco tensed. Why bother bringing her up? He wanted to make a retort, say that Granger wasn't nearly a smart as everyone thinks. Instead, he opened his hands in a " _who can say_ " gesture. "I'm sorry I cannot be of more help, John. It's been something I've been mulling over ever since that day. Have we made any progress in tracking her?"

Dawlish frowned. He made a note on his pad, taking his time before responding. He seemed to hesitate, appearing to consider saying something. After a moment he flipped the cover of his notepad and stood.

"No. Unfortunately, she barely left a trace. I believe she avoided most traditional methods of travel - no Portkeys, Floo, or Apparation. We don't think she's here, she's likely on the continent. Possibly heading to South America, we've received intelligence that there are some of the blood traitors in Peru. But nothing that substantial."

"Pity," Draco drawled. "I would like to see her found, she made a mockery of my department. I do hope if you have any news, you'll let me know."

"Of course."

With that, Dawlish took his leave. Draco waved his wand at the door after it snapped shut, locking it immediately. He frowned up at the ceiling.

It was clear that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was bitter that one of their own had been punished so severely. For something they clearly suspected of being his fault. He didn't need Dawlish sniffing around this — it was unlikely that he'd find anything of note, but there was a chance that the blasted Auror might discover Lovegood's escape wasn't merely a result of Draco's careless fumbling, but a carefully constructed plan.

With a sigh, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. The last thing he needed right now was a pack of vengeful Aurors meddling in his affairs. He would need to be careful, the next few matches needed to go on without a hitch. Draco turned to the manila folders neat stack on the right corner of his desk. If he was going to continue to avoid suspicion, he needed to get to work.

**—** **XXX—**

His tentative "yes" sparked a small flame of hope in Hermione's chest. It blossomed into a full-fledged fire when Meldy reported back in mid-May that all of the provisions had been pack away in the purse.

Two weeks after she had brought up the idea of going outside, Draco announced that the next Friday — a mere two days from then — he would take her for a stroll about the gardens.

"Mother has some kind of charity function with the Notts, and my father and aunt ought to be at a meeting with the Dark Lord," he explained. "No one ought to notice us."

Her head spun with the prospect. There was still much to do. Meldy would need to retrieve the bag for Hermione to hide somewhere on her person. She would need to copy a map of the region that was supposedly where Durmstrang could be found. Hermione would need to be assured that she could manage the wandless magic required. Was Draco unaware of the wards or did he think her not strong enough to do wandless magic even outside of the room?

Friday morning found Hermione copying a map of northern Norway. There wasn't any specific spot that marked the school, but rather a highlighted region amid snow mountains. She hoped that she might be able to piece together what Victor had told her of the school. Even unplottable things can be found. She carefully changed her pen ink from black to red to indicate the large swath of land that might contain the school. Grimly, she noted that it was about 17,000 square kilometers. Perhaps somewhere in all that there was a wizarding community that could direct her search….truth be told, she wasn't entirely sure how she would find the school. But leaving was better than staying, by far.

Meldy entered, producing the purse. Hermione's heart clenched at the sight of the slightly bedraggled beaded bag that had saved her skin on numerous occasions. The eggplant-colored silk glistened in Meldy's knobbled fingers.

"Here you are, miss," the elf proclaimed. She loosened the drawstrings.

Hermione peered inside, pushing back a few locks of hair so they did not obstruct her view. Everything was the same as it had been last June, or close enough. She spied several folded parcels of clothes — a sweater of Harry's, some jeans. A pair of her own worn grey trainers.

Something painful rose in her throat, but she pushed it down.

Meldy helpfully pointed out the food she'd scoured from the Malfoys. Along with some hard loaves of bread, apples, some potatoes, there were some jars of olives, capers, caviar, peaches, and pickled onions. Hermione also spied some tinned fish, a box of biscuits, a tin of shortbread, a fruitcake that was likely from Christmas, a sleeve of seeded crackers, a jar of marmalade, a jar of some kind of pate, and a wineskin.

"It's ever-replenishing!" the elf squeaked helpfully. "A gift, from one of the Lestranges decades ago. If you fill it with something it becomes bottomless!"

"Perfect for water," Hermione smiled. The rest of the food was relatively strange, but it ought to see her through a few weeks. It made sense that a wizarding family wouldn't have, say, cans of beans or boxes of cereal lying about their homes. At worst she could find a way to buy a few granola bars.

Crossing to the wardrobe, Hermione removed a pale yellow blouse. It was far too small for her, even with all of the weight she lost from grief and injury last summer. And it was probably still going to be too big for the house-elf, but it was the best she could manage.

Meldy's eyes grew wide at the sight of the garment. Hermione took a breath.

"I know technically, legally speaking, your master has to be the one to do this. But you've been instructed to serve me for nearly a year now. I hope that gives me some sway over whatever magic binds you. So here, Meldy." She presented the elf with the blouse.

Meldy's hands shook slightly as she accepted the garment. "I can stay, Miss, until you leave."

"That would be helpful," Hermione admitted. "But you're a free elf now. You can do as you wish."

There likely were not many options in a wizarding Britain ruled by Voldemort for a free elf, but she hoped that Meldy might find work at a fair wage. She told her as much.

"Thank you, Miss," Meldy said. "I will have tea ready for you, as usual."

Hermione hugged the elf. "Thank you for everything. I don't think I would have been able to get through this without you, Meldy."

**—** **XXX—**

Around two in the afternoon, she was packing a few of the less-ancient items of clothing and sorting through the books in her bag. _Hogwarts, A History_ was likely not going to come in handy during this journey, but she could hardly leave it behind. As she rearranged the last few things, she heard a foreboding sound on the stairs.

Draco, who was not due for two more hours, was unlocking the door. Hermione bit back a screech and shoved the bag in the only pocket-like space she had — down the front of her pink dress and in the space between her breasts. She spun, breathless.

"Hello," he said as he strode in, smiling. "I left work a little early so we could get plenty of time in the garden."

"D-Draco," she said softly. "You surprised me."

He hummed, removing his work robes, leaving him a simple cotton button-down shirt and a pair of black pants. No doubt he wanted something lighter for their time outside. "I'm sorry, I just knew you've been looking forward to this, and I thought I'd try to give us as much time as possible. I suspect it might be some time before we'll have the opportunity again when everyone is out of the house."

His kindness struck her. Guilt immediately sprung in her chest. Hermione managed a smile. "How thoughtful."

Malfoy leaned against the mantle, smiling at her. "Meldy ought to have a small picnic ready for us, too. I know that you must miss your freedom. I thought we'd make a bit of a celebration of it. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

To be honest, she still had a lot she wanted to do — change into something more practical than the old-fashioned pink dress she wore, finishing packing, leave him a note, give Meldy one last goodbye — but there was nothing to be done. She slipped on the only pair of shoes she had, the trainers she'd been wearing when he had found her. They looked out of place with the dress. She would fix that later.

For the first time in just short of a year, Hermione was outside of the tower. She followed Draco down the winding staircase, almost dizzy with excitement. He took her through the north wing, where the entrance to the tower was found at the end of a long corridor. It was a rather neglected area of the house, much like the tower. The walls were covered in ancient portraits that looked out with interest, scanning her cloud of hair with distaste. Draco indicated one door that led to the music room. Despite her disgust at the Malfoy family's values, part of her longed to explore the ancient home. As if sensing her curiosity, he pointed out various features as the moved throughout the well-appointed rooms.

They passed a room that gave Hermione pause. The purple walls and the crystal chandelier hanging at the center made her heart stop. Without thinking she put a hand on her scar. It was beneath the sleeve of her dress, she could still feel the slightly raised flesh. _Mudblood_

Draco noticed her lingering in the doorway of the ballroom. He doubled back for her.

She said nothing. Merely looked around. In the afternoon light, it was a much different room. The damask lining the walls with a fleur de lis pattern, the polished walnut floors, the high windows...it was beautiful really. An elegant space, meant for warm gatherings among friends. But in her mind's eye she could see herself sprawled on the floor, center of the room, weeping as Bella marred her flesh with that awful word. _Mudblood._ She could picture the flash of iron as the tip of the knife drove into to skin. Dark blood weeping from her white arm. Screaming from below, above, her own mouth -

His hand was suddenly in hers and the memory broke. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I forgot. Cmon. Let's go outside."

Hermione nodded, wide-eyed. "Yes. S-sorry," she stuttered.

Draco placed his arm around her loosely, his fingers against the small of her back, steering her away from the scene. They moved past another series of rooms that she largely ignored. Finally, he opened a door that led outside.

"Manicured" was the first word she could come up with to describe the gardens. The hedges were immaculately sculpted, the gravel walkways carefully raked. Everything had been carefully planted, tended to, weeded with percision. They walked past Grecian columns that surrounded a rose garden, the blooms merely tight buds waiting for warmer weather. Draco took her past multiple gurgling fountains, adorned with sculptures of swan, lithe nymphs, anything that screamed "graceful." Every so often she heard one of those pale peacocks scream in the distance.

He led her to an isolated corner where a bench sat beneath a flowering tree that canopied the space. A basket was awaiting them. Meldy's doing?

"It's lovely out here," Hermione managed as Draco settled on the bench, withdrawing a pair of crystal-cut cups and a bottle of sparkling lemonade. He poured her a glass. In the sun, his hair was almost blindingly white. She wondered if it would darken to gold with age.

"It was a passion of my grandmother's, I believe, gardening. Or, at least, supervising the construction of a garden. My mother is less-inclined, so I don't believe much has changed since my grandmother was the lady of the manor." He shrugged. "Someone keeps replacing the peacocks, anyways."

She couldn't help it — she laughed. "Does your family not like them?"

"Those things?" He looked at a nearby bird that pranced along the wall, looking both regal and pathetic in its marching. "No, they're just some kind of tradition. All they do is screech and poop on the drive. They're honestly a nightmare."

Hermione refrained from pointing out the fact that he was not the one charged with their care. Instead, she took a sip from her lemonade. She would need to act soon, so he would have enough time to recover before anyone came home. Perhaps it was for the best he had arrived early, despite catching her off-guard.

"I know this isn't much," he began suddenly. "Being outside. This scenario…it isn't ideal. You being hidden away, I mean. It doesn't give me any pleasure, having you so cooped up. To be honest, when I brought you here I didn't really have much of a plan."

"You don't say," she replied dryly.

Draco smirked, rolling his eyes. "My point is, we'll figure something out. I know that it isn't feasible for you to stay here forever, I know that you're not happy. But for the time being, if there is anything else you need, Hermione, you need only ask. Just know, we'll figure something out. Eventually. I just...it feels stupid, turning you out when you'd be far from safe."

Her heart swelled at his words, a tinge of guilt in addition to the anxiety. "Draco," she said helplessly, not knowing what else to say.

The wizard seemed to think he knew what she meant by this, lips tugging into a sad sort of smile. He took the hand that was not holding the lemonade. "I don't want you to have to spend the rest of your life hiding."

It was what she wished he had said in the beginning. It was, perhaps, exactly what he had meant to say all along. Circumstance had likely made expressing his desires difficult. But it probably wouldn't have made a difference. For all of his kindness, Draco was living in a den of snakes. It was only a matter of time before she would be bitten again.

Looking into his gray eyes, she squeezed his hand so tightly her knuckles turned white. With the smallest quaver in her voice, Hermione said softly, " _Stupefy."_

She caught him before he could hit his head on the stone bench.

**—** **XXX—**


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're entering part two! Buckle up, folks.

**—** **XXX—**

She found herself in the grey space between two buildings. Blinking, Hermione tried to focus, ignore the dizzy sensation the was currently ruling her head. Apparently, not apparating for over a year made one a little rusty. Thank the lord she hadn't splinched anything.

The scent of sea hit her abruptly – salt, sand, a certain tang that was only present near the ocean. Edging towards the end of the alley, she saw a glimpse of iron-colored water and the skeletal pier, a large white building looming and the words "Brighton Pier" in lights above. The sounds of children's merry laughter drifted towards her ears. Her family had come here several times when she was a child. It was less cerebral than many of their holidays, but Hermione had fond memories of the place. Sagging with relief against the brick of the building she'd landed next to, Hermione sighed. She'd made it.

"This won't do," she murmured, looking down at her rose-pink dress. With a word the material shrank back, turning into a more modern dress of the same color, sleeves shortened to accommodate the warm weather. She had not discovered Meldy's gift of an old, slightly splinter-y wand until she'd left the manor. It had been tucked into one of the many pockets of the bag. The short, black thing looked as though it had seen better days. Hermione suspected it was bound to give out at any moment, the wood was so old and brittle.

She was exhausted, but she couldn't stay here. Her best bet was to apparate to London and catch a train to Paris tomorrow. From Paris she could begin the long trek to Durmstrang. Apparation to the continent was risky, perhaps even impossible for a witch her age and skill. Crossing the channel and getting further west would go a long way towards getting her to safety.

" _With any luck, Draco won't be awake until tomorrow morning anyways."_

Guilt rose in her chest. Perhaps she should have tried to Obliviate him – but she suspected that level of memory removal would have been more risk than reward. She was hardly skilled enough to remove over a year's worth of select memories. Besides, it was unlikely he would come after her. After all, what would he achieve? There was too great a chance he would be found out. She'd seen what Voldemort had done to him over a lost Order member – what would he do if he discovered Draco to be a traitor?

She couldn't hate him. He'd risked so much to save her, he'd been gentle and kind and too willing to believe that she wouldn't leave him. In time, she'd even come to like him, somewhat. He was funny, in a cruel kind of way. Terribly intelligent, something she'd recognized grudgingly in school, though he was about as dedicated to his studies as Ron had been. Hermione suspected that if he hadn't been raised by bigoted supremacists, he might have been someone she could befriend.

In the end, Draco was many things she'd not expected. It would not do to repay his kindness by continuing to endanger him.

The next few weeks would be difficult ones — she'd be doing a lot of camping and would probably need to stick with muggle forms of transportation for the most part. Durmstrang was likely to be a stark contrast to the early summer she was experiencing in Britain. She would need to steel herself for what was sure to be an arduous journey.

Hermione gave the pier one last look before visualizing her next location, disappearing with a sharp pulling sensation in her gut.

**-XXX-**

It was exceedingly lucky that he'd woken before his parents arrived home. Draco had blinked back late afternoon sun, the golden mist of sunset settling into view as he sat up. The first thing he saw was the bench, with the open basket at one end along with a pair of cups.

He groaned at the sight, rubbing his temples. "Meldy," he called.

There was no _pop,_ no high-pitched voice greeting him.

He was alone.

Later, when Narcissa asked, frowning, where his elf was, he would make up some excuse about lending her to Zabini while he was on holiday.

It was a week before he went up to the northern tower, just to make certain. Though only a few days had passed, the room already felt stale. He took up one of the chairs by the fireplace, the one nearest the window, and simply stared. Draco did not know whether to feel relieved or frightened or angry. All three emotions clashed within his chest, each echoing the same worry - will she be okay?

By then his mother had noticed his resumed presence for afternoon tea, though she said nothing of it, merely reminded the cook to include his favorite sandwiches once again.

**—** **XXX—**

**_Three Weeks Later_ **

Despite donning two sweaters, a pair of scarves, a coat and a cloak, three pairs of woolen socks, a hat and earmuffs, wool gloves and heavy fleece-lined mittens, Hermione was feeling rather frozen when she knocked on the iron and oak door of Durmstrang. It was difficult to tell in the snow, but the worn wood depicted scenes from Norse mythology carved by a skilled hand. Hermione's eyes were stuck on the space where Yggdrasil's reaching roots had occupied when the door swung open with a great groan.

An old man with a pale face like melted wax was in the threshold, suspicious eyes wide. Hermione pushed back a lock of frosted hair, teeth chattering.

" _Cum ai ajuns aici_?" The man barked.

She spoke in rapid English, then French when it appeared he did not fully understand. "I am seeking sanctuary, I am Hermione Granger, Viktor Krum is my friend."

He perhaps did not fully understand her, but at the name Viktor Krum she saw a spark of recognition. He gestured for her to come in and aided her in removing her cloak and coat. She took off her boots and was offered a pair of shearling slippers. As she struggled to get her heel into the left pair, her host gesture for her to follow. Hermione stumbled after him, still shivering.

The walked down drafty halls lit by flickering torches until he turned abruptly and opened a door. Hermione followed, finding herself in a sort of study or parlor. The walls were lined with bookshelves, dark, moody oil painting, and heavy velvet drapes lined the windows, which were shuttered against the cold. A fire dominated one wall. Hermione stepped towards it, eager to let the heat soak into her bones. The man eyed her for a moment, then left through another door at the other end of the room.

She immediately took a seat before the fire, perching herself on one of the leather sofas that flanked the mantle.

Surely she was safe now. There was no doubt that Durmstrag was a stronghold against the Dark Arts – she'd heard enough whispers in her journey to feel confident of that.

But suppose they didn't want the burden of protecting Harry Potter's only surviving friend.

Perhaps in light of her betrayal, Draco had alerted Voldemort to her survival. Hermione, shook her head, brow furrowing as she stared into the flames, rubbing her chilled hands. He wouldn't, not without great risk of incriminating himself.

The door the wax-faced man had left through swung open abruptly, startling Hermione into a standing position, wand withdrawn. A sallow man with a thin beard and thick black eyebrows strode in. His dark eyes lit up upon seeing her and gave a small shout before clapping his hands around her.

"Hermy-own-ninny!"

"V-viktor!" she gasped as he folded her into a hug.

He pulled back, a look of amazement plastered on his pale face. "How did you find yourself here?"

Faintly, she noticed his English was much improved since they'd last seen one another two years ago. The accent was less pronounced, the "w" and "s" sounds softened.

"It's a bit of a long story," she managed, sitting as he gestured back to the sofa she had abandoned.

"They said you were dead," he said as the wax-faced man slipped inside quietly bearing a tray carrying crusty black bread, cheese, and something in a silver mug that was deliciously emitting thick swirls of steam.

"I nearly was." Swallowing, she leaned back against the sofa. "I was with Ron, after…after Harry. They chased us nearly to the lake where we were finally outnumbered. They killed him immediately, but no one used the killing curse on me. Just a bloodletting curse. So I passed out."

She paused to pick up one of the mugs, sipping tentatively. It was unclear what exactly the beverage was – she suspected a kind of mulled wine, with the spices – but really it didn't matter. The heat soaked through her, and Hermione pressed her palms into the wall of the mug. Viktor's eyes followed her every motion. He did not move to pick up his drink, too engaged in her narrative.

"How did you evade them?"

Hermione took a long breath, hesitating. "Someone found me. They pulled me from a pile of d-dead b-b-bodies and hid me in the castle, I think, before bringing me to a safe place."

Viktor's face was unreadable. "Who was this kind soul?"

"Draco Malfoy," she exhaled, staring into the depths of her mug.

"Son of Lucius Malfoy?" Surprise colored Viktor's tone.

Miserably, she nodded. "He healed me and hid me away in his manor for over a year. He kept it from everyone. And I don't know why, he hated me in school. He was the first student in our year to become a Death Eater. He hates anyone who isn't pureblooded." She realized she was crying and made to swipe her tears away angrily. "I don't know why he did it. But he was kind to me, too. He never hurt me. If anything he put himself at great risk to help me."

Krum absorbed this. Not being a Hogwarts student, he did not have a context for understanding why Draco's actions were so remarkable. Still, he was impressed that anyone would dare defy the Dark Lord.

"And he let you free?"

Hermione's cheeks flushed. "No, not exactly." She took a breath. "He kept me hidden in his Manor. And I knew that I was a risk to him, besides, I was virtually a prisoner – albeit one treated very well – so I planned to leave. The room he kept me in was runed against wandless magic – I don't think he knew – so I convinced him to take me outside. As soon as I was away from the rune I stunned him an apparated to Brighton." She bit her lip. "I went there on vacation several times with my family. It was the first thing that came to mind. After that, I went to London and took the train to France. Then I found my way here. It wasn't easy."

"No, I imagine not." Krum was looking at her curiously, a mixture of awe and concern on his face. "Hermione, that is no small feat. Are you not worried now that you have betrayed Malfoy that he might have told the Dark Lord of your survival?"

"No," she said firmly. "To do so, he'd have to admit to being a traitor himself. I don't think he'll come looking for me, either. I left him a note, you see, explaining that I fleeing and I do not plan on being the leader of some new coup d'etat. He has nothing to fear from me and I from him."

Viktor Krum sat back, letting out a breath. "I feel as though there is still much to the story that I am missing. But you must be tired and I will not keep you longer. Of course you must rest. There will be time for more questions –"

He was cut off by the entrance of three people who burst through the double doors Hermione had entered through earlier. At the sight of her on the sofa, two of the three withdrew their wands, aiming them directly at the witch.

"I couldn't believe it," Neville Longbottom said Hermione leveled her own stolen wand at him. "When Ivan said that Hermione Granger was at our door. What did my gran send me our first year, that Draco stole during our first flying lesson?"

"A Rememberall," Hermione replied, never wavering. Krum had risen, hands up, and a beseeching looking on his sallow face.

"My friends," he said. "Please. I know this comes as a shock –"

"Why didn't Cormac McLaggen make keeper your sixth year?" This was from Ginny, whose brown eyes were blazing.

"Because I confounded him."

Satisfied, Ginny lowered her wand. Neville hesitated in doing the same, while Luna Lovegood threw her arms around Hermione without hesitation.

"How?" was all Neville could manage before joining in on the hug as well. When all was settled, Viktor Krum was the only one in the room whose eyes were not red-rimmed. Hermione pushed back tears as she repeated what had transpired since the battle. Only Luna seemed to be unastonished at who had proven to be the muggle-born witch's savior. She stayed quiet, however, letting Hermione get through her tale.

When Hermione's voice was hoarse from talking, Viktor stood.

"I would be a poor host if I did not insist that you get some rest, Hermione," he said gently. "You are weary and you will have all the time in the world tomorrow to see your friends. Come, let us all go to bed."

"You can share my room," Ginny said quickly. "And I have some clothes, too."

Grateful, Hermione followed the youngest Weasley to a room that was sparse but warm, crawling into bed and sinking into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

**—** **XXX—**


	9. Chapter 9

**—XXX—**

The following week was a blur. She met the other refugees – the Diggorys, a number of Hogwarts professors, Augusta Longbottom, Penelope Clearwater, Katie Bell, Dean Thomas, Andromeda and Teddy, and other people she'd not met but had heard of — Owen Cauldwell, Laura Madley, Graham Pritchard, Anthony Goldstein. Everyone was weary, but friendly. People she didn't even know were grateful for her survival, something that struck Hermione right the throat in a peculiar kind of way.

The rest of the Weasleys were in France – the journey so far north would be difficult on the pregnant Fleur and the injured Arthur Weasley. Ginny had gone ahead and was awaiting them. Molly, Percy, Bill, Charlie, Fleur, and Arthur had made it out alive, not entirely unscathed. It was likely that Bill and Fleur would ultimately remain in France with Fleur's family. Charlie was discussing taking the rest of the family to Romania, where he had connected. Ginny did not know how she felt about this, she told Hermione, it felt an awful lot like hiding. Like giving up.

As Krum explained it, the school's headmaster, Alexandru Constantin, had swiftly offered sanctuary to those that could make the journey. Constantin himself was in Spain, working with western European wizarding bodies to strategize their moves in regards to Britain. Kingsley was there as well, working with the remaining Order members to advocate for Britain. Viktor, who was in his second year of teaching at Durmstrang, was a liaison of sorts between the refugees and the rest of the school in Constantin's absence. For the time being, everyone was staying put as lines of communication slowly opened between others in hiding.

Someone found her a wand — an old cast-off, of a dark and dull wood. It didn't sit as comfortably in Hermione's hand as her own had. But it worked well enough, and she was comforted by the familiar weight in her pocket.

The refugees were given housing in one wing of the castle. The younger among them attended classes, the elder folks occupied their days writing to loved ones, planning their next moves, or lending a hand in the running of the castle. They ate their meals together in one corner of the Great Hall, speaking in soft English and avoiding the darker subjects. Hermione was often squeezed between Ginny and Neville, Luna and Dean across the table. listening as they discussed options for the coming spring. The goal was for everyone to find a more permanent place before next summer. Several families were discussing America or Canada. Australia was mentioned. Hermione was surprised to hear Professor Sinestra mention a desire to join a group of nomadic wizards in Mongolia. Ginny was likely going to reunite with her family in France in a few months. Neville and Augusta were undecided, though leaning towards Canada.

Hermione, used to a year of isolation, found herself subdued even among her friends. They spoke, and she listened. There was much to be said by all – Hermione simply wasn't saying much. After all, she was used to it. Still, she was happy to be out, working. Drumstrang employed only a few house-elves and expected students to take part in the domesticities of the castle. She found herself often in the kitchens washing dishes or taking a duster to the more neglected shelves in the library.

It was there that Luna found her, balancing on a ladder with a feather duster in hand. While there were charms that would easily do the job, Hermione preferred to do certain tasks herself.

"Hullo," said Luna from the bottom of the ladder, gazing up with her unblinking eyes. Hermione nearly started but managed to maintain herself, coming down quickly.

"Luna, you surprised me." She tried not to sound like a scold.

The younger girl smiled. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to see if you were interested in tea. You missed lunch."

"I did?" She glanced at the clock that loomed over the library, high on the wall over the front desk. It was three in the afternoon. She'd been in the library since ten. "Oh."

Luna led her to the parlor Hermione had been taken to upon her arrival. She didn't speak, something Hermione appreciated. Luna, despite her oddness, had solid instincts when it came to people. When she and Hermione settled before the fire, nursing warm mugs, she finally turned her luminous eyes back to the other witch and spoke.

"He saved me too, you know."

Nearly choking on her tea, Hermione set the mug down on the table between them with more force than she'd intended. A little of the amber liquid sloshed out. Hermione flicked her wand mindlessly, cleaning up the tea without a word. She did not need to ask who the "he" was referring to.

Luna continued. "I don't know if you're aware of what he does for the Dark Lord. I suppose with so many of us in Azkaban, there is a good chance of population decline. Our rebellion, paired with the persecution of muggleborns, means that growth is threatened. He cannot afford to let all of us waste away. So they've begun taking people out an offering them marriage contracts – anyone who is relatively young, and not deemed dangerous. They match them with people on their side, people they trust."

"And they offered this to you?"

Her blonde head bobbed, fingers tracing the rim of her mug as she peered at Hermione. "Draco is supposed to be the one to convince us, I suppose. They yank us from Azkaban and he meets with us at the Ministry in a lovely room with comfortable chairs, fancy biscuits, tea…all of those simple things you miss after months in a black hole. And he's lovely and kind and charming, really."

"Does it work?" She could hardly imagine Malfoy as "charming." He had proven himself compassionate, to her anyway. But he'd rarely needed to charm anyone when his money could do it for him.

"For some people," Luna admitted. "There were whispers. They gave you some time, you see, to think it over. And those that thought it overcame back and told the rest of us. Some said yes. Some didn't. I don't know what happened if you declined, but I suspect nothing good."

Hermione shuddered. "So you were brought to him. And he made the offer."

"And I said no. So he set me free."

The bushy-haired witch shook her head. "That doesn't make any sense."

Luna nodded thoughtfully. "It was a big risk to take. He stunned the guard and gave me his wand. Told me instructions on how to get out of the Ministry, said that I might try for Durmstrang, and then gave me a Polyjuice with his ex-girlfriend's hair in it."

"Pansy? He gave you a Pansy Polyjuice?" Hermione could barely process this. To be fair, it was perhaps not so unbelievable – after all, he'd risked much to hide her. He'd obliviated his aunt, after all.

"Yes. Then he made me obliviate him and the guard. And I ran." Luna paused, thinking. "It was only a few months ago, after Valentine's Day. I asked him why and he said that he didn't think things would be like this, under You Know Who. But now I wonder if it was because of you."

In her mind's eye, she could picture a bloody and bruised Draco slumped at the end of her bed.

_"I made a mistake."_

It hadn't been an error due to his ego. He'd intentionally planned to let Luna go, knowing the risks. Hermione's mind was reeling.

"I don't understand," she heard herself say faintly.

Luna patted her hand kindly. "I thought you should know."

**-XXX-**

Oliver Wood was someone who wore his heart on his sleeve. Which was why Draco knew immediately that there was simply no way that the former Quidditch star would be interested in a proposed union with Madeline Smith. And Draco also knew he couldn't send the fellow to the demeanors.

It had been two months since Hermione stunned him with a non-verbal and wand-less spell (he had to grudgingly admit that she was good, excellent even). Mercifully, he'd not had to encounter any more matchmaking at work — the Dark Lord had redirected his department's energies towards recruitment efforts in Europe and that had taken up most of Draco's time. But then this had landed on his desk last week.

So now he faced the freckle-faced Scot. Azkaban had not withered Wood as much as some. If anything, his frustration had kept him alive. He was a bit more muscular than he was in their intersecting years at Hogwarts, and his hair was in less of a bowl-cut. Draco could vaguely recall playing a match or two against the keeper when he was captain of the Gryffindor team. Back then his primary focus had been on Potter. Well, Potter and the snitch, of course.

Draco spoke for a while, offering the usual tea and coffee, pushing Madeline's file across the table. The elder sister of Sally, who had been in Draco's class, Madeline was perhaps seven years Wood's senior. As anticipated, Wood did not touch the manila folder. Nor did he reply to any of Draco's attempts at conversation. He simply stared forward, as so many did during these meetings. That was, until, Draco mentioned the courtship period.

"You'd have the opportunity to go outside. Get some fresh air as you get to know one another. We don't trouble with too much chaperoning. After all, we want you to get to know one another." Knowing he couldn't risk another stunt like the one with Lovegood, he was reduced to layering thick implications in his pitch. At this, Wood's eyes flickered briefly.

"Madeline is very…er, feminine woman," he went on. "Quite petite and demure. Not as prone to whip out her wand as some, but she's got a good bloodline."

She was rather hapless in most areas of magic. Not a squib by any means, but overpowering her physically wouldn't give someone like Wood any trouble. Or, at least, he could probably outrun her. Once they were outside….

Wood seemed to be churning Draco's words around in his head. Finally, he met the other wizard's eyes. Voice hoarse, he spoke evenly as possible.

"I would be willing to meet Miss Smith." His eyes were cautious, but Draco could see something like hope in them.

"Very good," Draco replied, making a note on the paperwork before him. "We'll put out the invitation. My colleague, Parker Quince, will be your chaperon. Poor Quince, just got off of a suspension due to some clumsy accident last month. He's still suffering something of a weak right leg, at the moment. From what I've heard even the slightest breeze will topple him."

"Suspension" was perhaps not the right word for the punishment the idiot had suffered at the hands of the Dark Lord, but it was close enough. But what could you expect from someone whose grandfather thought Muggles spawned from mushrooms and wizards originated from Mars?

Oliver seemed to catch the implication that he'd be paired with a weak witch and an equally fool of an auror. Before leaving the room he met Draco's gaze once again. There was something like a wary hope in them.

Nothing was guaranteed. But it was a chance.

**—XXX—**

When Krum asked her to take charge of a group of unruly first-year students who could use a little extra tutoring in tranfiguration, Hermione was hesitant. She'd never done anything more formal than guide Harry and Ron through concepts before their common room fire. But Viktor seemed to think she was well-suited to it.

"You have a gentle nature," he said as he walked with her down the corridors towards the refugee wing, hands clasped behind his back. "But you are not unyielding, I think they will respect you."

"I don't know," she replied worriedly. "I don't speak the language too well."

Classes were taught in German at Durmstrang, though their students came from all over Eastern Europe and spoke a variety of tongues. In her three weeks thus far Hermione had heard Polish, Bulgarian, Russian, and Czech though the hall. Her German was rusty at best, though based on her short conversations with Viktor he thought it to be serviceable enough.

"Peytor and Natalia both speak English. They can help you."

She wanted to do this, truly. She was indebted to the school, to Viktor. With a final sigh, she agreed. Krum's smile was very nearly worth it. He hugged her swiftly and she noted color high on his cheeks when he moved away.

"Thank you. Professor Volakiav will be thrilled to hear it. We must have you come to class next week and introduce yourself."

It was too late to argue. Hermione forced a smile as Viktor walked her to her door and kissed her cheek, his beard lightly scratching her skin in a way that was not unpleasant. Closing the door behind her, she sank onto her bed with a sigh.

Viktor was already making moves to try to keep her here. They'd only stopped writing to one another the year she was on the run with Harry and Ron, and he'd never faltered in his attempts to convince her to visit his home in Bulgaria, see him when the team toured, etc. She was flattered and rather liked him, but the timing had never been right. No doubt he saw this as his chance, a blessing in disguise, the perfect opportunity to court her. And while under different circumstances she could see herself being responsive to that attraction….

With a groan, she shook her head. Now was not the time to start cultivating a romance. Maybe another woman could do it, but she was preoccupied at the moment with what was occurring on the wizarding world stage.

When Ginny found her twenty minutes later, furious writing out a curriculum based on the first year's Transfiguration spellbook, the redheaded witch sat beside Hermione and hugged her shoulders.

"I see he asked you to start tutoring. That's good," she commented, taking the parchment from her friend's hands. "He's been very concerned about you."

Hermione sighed. "Him and everyone else, I think."

"You went through something traumatic." Ginny frowned. "I mean, the lot of us did, but yours was prolonged."

Biting her lip, Hermione closed the textbook in her lap. "It truly was not so bad. He didn't…Malfoy didn't hurt me. He was actually quite kind. It's hard to explain."

"He kept you prisoner for over a year," Ginny said flatly.

The elder witch did not respond. It was strange, to be defending someone only a few years ago she would have readily thrown to the wolves. A person who had, as Ginny pointed out, virtually kept her captive.

Without looking at the youngest Weasley, Hermione began packing up her things, putting them in the drawer of her wobbly nightstand.

"It's hard to explain," she repeated softly.

**—XXX—**

The tutoring sessions did brighten her a little. Hermione wasn't a natural teacher, per se. But she was patient and willing to talk through spellcasting. By the end of her first session, four of the six students could successfully turn a thimble into a moth. Turning the moth back into a thimble proved to be harder, but Hermione was confident that they would get the gist. Eventually.

After dismissing the students, she sought out Neville as there were still a few hours left before dinner. He was likely in the greenhouses of the eastern wing. Due to their harsh cold, Durmstrang's greenhouses were attached to the castle and magically modified for warmth and artificial sunlight. Neville had happily volunteered to oversee the flora, as the herbology professor was taking an extended leave of absence in light of the recent political unrest. The greenhouses were smaller than those at Hogwarts, which was not surprising considering Durmstrang's climate. Regardless, Neville was in his element.

Hermione quietly walked through rows of sunny daffodils and bright red poppies, peering through the vines that draped themselves on the rafters of the greenhouse. "Neville?" she called out when she failed to find him.

"Hullo!" the young man called from across the artificial pond in the center of the main greenhouse. The witch began picking her way towards him, mindful of what leaves brushed her skin.

"Am I late for dinner?" he asked when she met him. He was at the potting bench, black dirt smeared on one cheek as he worked to move a tangle of purple roots into a larger vessel. The roots wiggled slightly as he held them aloft.

"No, it's not for another hour," she replied absently. "What is that?"

"Oh!" He smiled. "Pokeweed. It's used to treat pains, but it can cause a needling sensation. Good for diagnosing potions. It's American, I've never seen one before. Durmstrang has some really surprising specimens."

"Interesting," she said. And it was.

The young wizard finished packing dark wet soil around the tangled roots than peeled off his gardening gloves. Wiping his forehead with the back of his head (further smearing his face), he looked at his classmate with a slightly nervous smile.

"How are you?" he finally asked. "I feel as though despite seeing you every day for the last month I've not gotten the chance to really talk with you."

Hermione was closely examining a hanging vessel filled with Bleeding Hearts. She bit her lip, not looking at Neville when she spoke.

"I'm fine. Still…adjusting. I mean. We're very much in limbo, aren't we? Can't stay here forever."

"No," he agreed. "Not really."

"I suppose it all still feels so surreal. That he's taken over. That they are gone."

"But you're not gone," he said suddenly. "Hermione, it gave us some odd peace to know the three of you had died, together. The fact that you are here, alive, it feels like a miracle. Hope, really."

The witch sighed. "Everyone has been saying that. I fear I'm going to become some kind of icon for resistance, a call to arms. But I don't want to be. Fighting feels pointless now. No one understands, anyways, that I wasn't kidnapped and brutally tortured. I'm not some martyr. If anything I'm incredibly lucky."

"You survived, Hermione," Neville said firmly. "That's all any of us could want. We wouldn't want you to have suffered."

She let her fingers brush one of the bright pink blooms, hand dropping to her side abruptly as she held her sides. "Sometimes I wish we had all three died together," she whispered. "It would have been fitting. Easier, I think. But I hate myself for thinking it."

Wordless, Neville approached and enveloped her into a hug.

**—XXX—**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always liked Viktor, he seemed perfectly nice. I did as much research as possible on Durmstrang, but folks there isn't much out there. Please forgive any embellishment.


	10. Chapter 10

**-XXX-**

"You seem distracted, dear."

Draco glanced up from his post beside the parlor window, where he'd been watching the albino peacocks rather mindlessly. He nearly dropped his teacup and saucer out of surprise, quite forgetting his mother was there. Narcissa sat in the middle of the room on the velvet couch, smoothing the skirts of her robes as she waited for her son to speak.

"I'm sorry," he said honestly. "My mind was elsewhere."

She smiled. He noted the lines that framed her mouth and blue eyes, realizing for the first time how much the last few years had aged her. "I can tell," she said lightly. "What is on your mind?"

He could not tell her, of course. For a moment he imagined what he might say if he were to tell her that the muggleborn witch he'd been hiding in the attic escaped, that he was fearful for her life, and worst of all he missed her company. Perhaps she would faint. Or maybe she would listen with horror blossoming in her heart, then swear silence upon herself. She'd shown, time and time again, that she would risk everything for him. Even when he didn't deserve it.

Instead, Draco lowered his saucer, looking down at the purple patterned china. "Just work. The usual stress, Mother."

She made a humming sound. "Your father and I were talking, we thought it might be time for you to consider resigning. There is much of the family business you have yet to learn, and your father would be thrilled to teach you."

_If he could pull himself out of a bottle long enough to do so._

"Of course, Mother."

"I know you enjoy your work," she continued. "But there is much to running an estate successfully. One such as ours requires much dedication."

"I will consider it," he promised. Then, with the hope of changing the subject, he asked, "How did your lunch with Mrs. Zabini and Nott go yesterday?"

Narcissa eyed him, knowing quite well what he was doing. But she indulged her son and began to share the latest gossip from the ladies who lunch.

**—XXX—**

He hadn't thought much when his mark burned one autumn afternoon. A missive glided into his office, informing him of the Death Eater meeting that was commencing within the hour. He resumed his paperwork, only to be interrupted forty minutes later by his aunt — surprising, as she rarely spent time in the Ministry.

"Draco," she cooed, a dark shadow in his doorway. "I thought you might accompany me to our gathering, your dear father will not be in attendance and your uncle is out of town."

He bit back a sigh. "Of course, Aunt Bella. Let me just…" Draco gestured to his messy desk.

She waited, staying in the threshold as he piled papers and sorted various files. Finally, he summoned his cloak from the hook on the wall, clasping it around his neck, and followed his aunt out of the office. They let his secretary know he was leaving early for the day.

The witch behind the oak desk had wide eyes for Bella. Draco felt guilty, she was a lovely office administrator, and it wouldn't do for her to be fearful of his more violent relatives popping in. With any luck, this would be an isolated incident of Bellatrix seeking his company.

As the only nephew or niece she recognized, he held a strange place in her rotten heart. She seemed determined to keep him on his upward trajectory within the Dark Lord's ranks.

They made their way to the atrium. Bella directed him to one of the Floo fireplaces. He threw the powder in, feeling only a tinge of annoyance when some of it got on his cuff. Draco stepped into the flames, feeling the swirl of fiery magic overtake him immediately.

He landed gracelessly in his own ballroom, where two rows of masked Death Eaters were already present, seated before the Dark Lord. Caught off guard — masks were not typical of meetings such as this — he peered around the room.

Voldemort's red eyes locked on him instantly. The red snakelike iris narrowed, a predator focusing on its prey.

Draco heard his aunt exit the fireplace. Her boney hands were suddenly around him, yanking him back and pressing the tip of her black wand against his throat. He couldn't breathe, his head forced upwards so that he could see the Dark Lord and his minions only though straining his eyes.

"Draco," the Dark Lord spoke softly, so softly that the young wizard hard to strain to hear. "I believe you have some things to share with the group…."

**—XXX—**

Every few weeks the refugees would meet together in the parlor near the entrance to the castle. There Kingsley would Floo as Sirius had, sticking his head into the green flames to share the latest news. Hermione had learned these meetings were usually tense, with Kingsley updating them on the status of the European Wizards Council's decision regarding upsuring Voldemort (there weren't many actual updates, the council was well-known for dragging their feet, even on urgent matters), then some more personal news regarding old friends. By the time things wrapped up, everyone was pretty disheartened.

Tonight was no different. Everyone settled in, the aura of the room already taking on a dour grey. Hermione sat beside Luna and Dean, ready for the next hour of false cheer. Everyone gave their best impression of hopeful revolutionaries. But they were all tired. So tired…

Kingsley began with his usual spiel about visiting with various ambassadors, murmurs of potential action that would never be taken, the work that others were doing in America, and Eastern Asia to try to get other governments on their side. Then he moved onto whatever rumblings they'd heard out of the UK itself. Hermione was mentally calculating how many more times Kingsley would be put off by the representative from Greece before he'd give up, when he said something offhandedly regarding the Malfoy family.

"We've heard from reliable sources that Draco Malfoy has been ousted as a traitor to the Dark Lord and his new regime," Kingsley began. Hermione felt everyone's eyes shift to her. She straightened, keeping her gaze on Kingsley.

"What's this?" Neville asked, breaking the silence.

Kingsley spoke slowly. "It has been known for some time that young mister Malfoy has been defying his orders in regards to the marriage selection program the Ministry has established. It was confirmed when Luna came to us. Last week, we received word from some of our Irish Order members that Oliver Wood has found safe house in Cork."

The room took a collective breath. In the battle, after Harry had been declared dead, Oliver and Neville had put up quite a fight. In the end, Oliver was subdued and Neville escape. However, no one had been sure of what happened to Gryffindor's former quidditch captain. He'd not been seen in Azkaban by those who had since escaped. Hermione's heart lifted as Kingsley explained Draco's carefully constructed instructions to Wood. But her spirits were soon crushed as Kingsley described the aftermath.

"According to our sources, he has been imprisoned in his own home for the time being." Kingsley's voice was grim. "I have no doubt that the Dark Lord will see fit to make an example of him."

"I can't believe it," Neville said lowly. "I mean, I know he saved you, Luna, but he's an absolute nutter to do it again and again. It was bound to end like this for him."

Hermione bit her lip, looking at the dull wool rug.

"He was very brave," Luna said. Hermione felt the younger witch squeeze her hand. "To go against his family, his friends. Everything he has ever known."

The meeting soon ended, with people trickling out of the parlor at a steady rate. Usually, Hermione headed straight to bed, but tonight, she stood in a small circle of friends, worrying her lip as she listened to them speak.

"What a crazy thing," Dean said, shaking his head. "Draco Malfoy, executed by Death Eaters."

"Dean," Ginny scolded, casting an eye towards her friend.

Hermione brought herself to speak. "He was very brave, as Luna said. The night of the battle he saved me."

The group stood in that for a moment before someone made another awkward attempt at conversation. But eventually, they all departed. Hermione left Ginny and Dean, who were headed to the kitchens for a nightcap, while the rest of the party headed to their respective rooms. Neville quietly confessed to Hermione that he suspected the pair had rekindled their feelings for one another. In one way it made her heart hurt. In another, she felt comforted by the knowledge that Ginny could move on with her life.

In her sparse room, Hermione paced. She pictured Draco in the dungeons of his family home, the same ones Luna and Olivander once occupied. She imagined him steeling himself against the Dark Lord's cold and high voice.

Why had he done it? Over and over, risking his life to let people he'd presumably hated slip from the fingers of the Dark Lord? What had brought him to save her, someone he certainly hated, from certain death? And house her for nearly a year, attacking his own family when her safety was at risk?

After a little more than an hour, she turned to the window. Without a moment's hesitation, she summoned a happy thought and waved her wand. Soon, a silver otter wound about her ankles, its cheery presence out of place amid her racing thought. She spoke to it in a low voice, sending it out of the leaded window and into the night. She only hoped Kingsley would answer her shortly.

A ghost-like Lynx appeared almost an hour later, bearing Kingsley's deep voice. Hermione was grateful that Ginny was still absent. She had a feeling the younger witch would not be pleased to know her plan.

**—-XXX—**

Hermione's theory proved correct — Ginny was not pleased when, at dawn the next morning, Hermione had summoned her friends to the very parlor they'd sat in the night before.

Dean, Luna, Neville, Ginny, and Krum all sat patiently as Hermione haltingly detailed what she had learned from Kingsley the night before and what she planned to do. That Draco was being held in his family's home. The Dark Lord was going to issue a judgment tomorrow, with many of his Death Eaters present. It was incredibly likely that Draco would die. And that Hermione was going to go back to Britain to save him.

They were patient, but she could tell from the raised eyebrows that every last one of them was incredulous, even angry.

Victor spoke first, carefully. "Hermione. You left Britain for a reason. Going back now would be…" He struggled for a word. "…a bad idea."

"I agree with Krum," Dean said. "It's unfortunate what's happened to Draco, but he's not exactly our kind of bloke. I mean, he's a Death Eater."

"He has been trying to save people," Hermione replied, crossing her arms. "He saved me. Luna, Oliver Wood. Maybe even more. I owe him."

Ginny, who appeared very pale, stood. "We only just got you back," she seethed. "And now you're running off to do what, save the monster who kept you imprisoned for a year? It is suicide, Hermione."

The elder witch looked at her friend. "I don't expect anyone to understand. But he's been a friend to me. It's not right, leaving him to this fate. I - I think Harry would do the same."

She had not thought it was possible for Ginny to get any whiter. But all the blood seem to drain from her face. And without another word, she turned on her heels and fled.

The room was quiet for a moment before Dean also stood, murmuring, "I'll go get her," and followed Ginny out.

Luna, Neville, and Krum all sat, a little dumbfounded. Hermione sighed.

"I just wanted to let you know what I was doing. I know you probably think I am crazy, but I can't just sit by while this happens."

"You're right," Neville said suddenly. "Harry would do it. He hated the bloke, but he wouldn't want Draco to die, especially after everything he's done. I'll go with you."

Luna nodded. "I will too."

She looked between them, eyes prickling with tears. "You don't — I can't —"

"We're going," Neville said firmly. "We can't let you do this alone."

Viktor, for his part, looked a little embarrassed. "I am afraid it is impossible for me to go. At the moment, I am responsible for the school. I cannot leave my students."

Hermione, who stood nearest his armchair, squeezed his hand. "I understand. It's not your fight, anyways."

"But I can get you whatever you need," he added. "A secure Floo network, brooms, whatever you might require."

She kissed his cheek, and he went a little pink.

**—XXX—**


	11. Chapter 11

**-XXX—**

To Hermione's surprise, after Neville spoke to Dean, he agreed to come with them that evening to the manor. She would have thought the muggleborn Dean, who had seen many friends killed at the hands of Death Eaters and narrowly escape himself, who loved Ginny, would not want to join their party. But he agreed — it was the right thing to do.

Over the next few hours, they prepared as best they could. Victor arranged for an unregistered portkey to get them to Wiltshire. Hermione drew a map of the grounds and house from memory with Luna's help, including the dungeons. The witches also stocked Hermione's beaded purse, raiding Durmstrang's Potion Mistress's store for healing potions and Polyjuice.

"Just in case," Hermione had said grimly. She wished they had some Felix Felicis on hand. They could use all of the luck they could get right now.

When they gathered in the courtyard at dusk to set off, everyone except Dean was startled to see Ginny lingering by the columns. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she hugged every one of them fiercely, lingering on Dean the longest. But she slipped out before they touched the teapot Krum had produced as a portkey.

Krum had explained solemnly that they would need to find their own way home — another portkey or perhaps a Floo. He couldn't risk reaching out to bring them back, it was already bad enough that he was using school resources to send them back.

"I understand."

"Be safe," he warned them all. "We will keep watch for you. If you get within the perimeter of the school, someone will come out to find you."

With that, they huddled around the teapot. Everyone took a deep breath, and on the count of three, they touched fingertips to ceramic. Hermione felt a familiar pull in her navel, closed her eyes, and let herself be swept away.

**-XXX—**

Neville immediately puked upon their arrival. Luna patted his back comfortingly, producing a bottle of water for him once he stopped retching.

They had landed in the forest that surrounded the estate. It would be a bit of a walk to get to the actual gates of the house — they couldn't risk apparating this close — so they walked. It was already midnight, with the moon high in the sky. Silently, they moved through the long shadows cast on the ground, using a map Luna had found of the area earlier that day in one of the books in the Durmstrang Library.

"Point me," Hermione asked her wand. It spun in her hand, showing her true north. They peered over the map, trying their best to navigate a landscape that had most likely altered greatly in the 200 years since the map was created.

Just when Hermione feared they were lost, they crested and hill, catching sight of a familiar silhouette of a massive house, surrounded by imposing gray stone walls. Against the night sky, she could see the outline of the northern tower. How many nights just like this had she stood at the arched windows in that big, lonely tower room, watching the icy light of the moon highlight the landscape in an otherworldly glow?

Soon they were at the wall, and sooner yet Hermione had shown them to the hidden door in the wall, the one she had found that afternoon she stunned Draco and ran. It was like the one in Diagon Alley or Platform 9 3/4, you just needed to know where to look. They passed through it, the air heavy between them.

This was it. Past the point of no return. Now it was just a matter of getting inside the house.

And avoiding those stupid white birds.

"Ignore the blasted peacocks," Hermione hissed back to the others, nearly colliding with Neville's back when the wizard abruptly stopped.

Narcissa Malfoy sat on the very bench where Hermione had stunned her son a mere three months ago. Upon the sight of the party, she stood swiftly, cloak swirling as she withdrew her wand, eyes flickering warily between them. No one spoke, though Neville and Dean also took out their wands. Luna pointedly didn't. Hermione had already had hers out.

"Something shifted in the wards," she murmured. "But I thought perhaps it was merely more of them, apparating outside. Lucius didn't notice, of course."

No one felt the need to ask who the "them" she was referring to was.

"Have you come for your revenge?" she asked Hermione, who had shifted from out behind Neville and stood at the front of the group.

"No," the younger witch said flatly. "I've come to find Draco."

Narcissa took in the sight of her and her eyes lingered on the wand Hermione held to her side. Particularly on the slightly tarnished band that sat on her finger.

"You – you have come to save him."

It wasn't a question. Hermione leveled her eyes with the Malfoy matriarch. Narcissa lowered her wand slowly.

"You recognize the ring," Hermione said. "Draco gave it to me, months ago. For Christmas."

Narcissa hugged herself. She suddenly looked very small and frail. Hermione hadn't met the witch many times before the war, but she'd always come across as a proud, confident woman. Now, with wisps of her blond hair falling out of her elaborately styled bun, tear-rimmed eyes, cheeks red and chapped from crying, she looked like someone who had lost everything.

"It was my sister's," she said. "Andromeda's. I gave it to Draco to give to his beau, a future wife…."

That sent a pang straight through Hermione's heart. She avoided the glances the other sent her way.

"He told me, before they took him away, what he did for you. I don't understand why he did it, risking his life, our lives," Narcissa continued softly. "But I am proud of him for defying his father's legacy."

"Where is he, Mrs. Malfoy?" Neville asked, voice devoid of emotion.

She hesitated, then said, "The northern tower. Bella thought it would be fitting. _He_ is set to arrive at dawn too –" Cissy stopped herself, taking a breath. "My sister is eagerly awaiting the Dark Lord's arrival. My husband has locked himself in his study. Drinking, of course. I have been out here since sunset, trying to find a way…"

Hermione felt a pang of sympathy for Narcissa Malfoy. She was alone in her grief. It was too easy to picture Bella, excited by the prospect of pleasing her master and Lucius drunk and withdrawn, no help whatsoever.

"I don't know why he did this for you, any of you," she said, directly to Hermione. "But please. He was not the same, I think after you left. He didn't have any purpose beyond trying to make amends."

She bit her lip. "I didn't mean to put him at risk. If anything, I thought my leaving might prevent something like this from happening."

Narcissa didn't reply. She simply reached out and clasped Hermione's hand. The younger witch squeezed.

"We should start moving," Luna said softly. "We're only a few hours from daylight."

She was right. Hermione turned to the rest of the group, still holding Narcissa's hand in her own. It was decided that she would make her way to the tower and Neville and Dean would follow to make sure their path was clear for an exit. Luna would help Narcissa lower the wards around the estate. They would all meet in the forest beyond the walls and make their way back to Armstrong. Narcissa both made their plan easier and more complicated — she made their search for Draco faster, yet figuring her into their escape put them a person short. Hermione hoped that it wasn't a miscalculation. She knew though, if they left without his mother, Draco wouldn't be able to forgive himself.

Luna embraced each of them before walking out of sight with Mrs. Malfoy. The older witch held a ramrod posture. She was walking away from the only life she'd known — her husband, her friends, her home. Hermione just hoped that she would have her son by the end of the night.

With that, she led the boys towards the manor. They passed two hooded Death Eaters on their trek through the gardens, possibly Yaxley and Dolohov. She recognized McNair when they crept around to the kitchens. He was sitting with his feet propped up on the scrubbed table where an elf was kneading bread. The house-elf appeared harried by the intrusion in her kitchen. Hermione had hoped to enter through the kitchen, but with that option out she headed to the next best option —

"That is a coal shoot," Dean observed flatly.

"We're wizards," she snapped. "With a flick of a piece of wood, we'll be clean in a heartbeat. Come on."

Neville and Dean exchanged glances. But they complied, especially when Hermione reminded them that she had crawled through slimy sewer tunnels beneath Hogwarts once to retrieve the fangs of a dead snake. After that, they shut up.

The room they fell into was dark. After a series of _Lumos_ and a few cleaning charms, they navigated their way around shelves full of cans of paint, tools, broken odds and ends. It was some kind of storage closet, full of odds and ends she was sure only the house-elves were really aware of. It had been a long time since the manor had been fueled with coal. The perfect place to enter and (hopefully) escape. Hermione cast a disillusionment charm on each of them after checking that the hall beyond the door was clear. Then the boys silently followed her as she steered them towards the northern wing.

It soon became clear that there were others in the house, specifically the dining room. Hermione crept past the open threshold, shuddering when she heard the familiar cackle of Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Typical Lucius," she was saying to someone. "Leave it to him to ruin a perfectly good heir. Draco has always been weak, but I would have never expected this out of him."

"I mean, do you remember his first mission?" another voice scoffed. If Hermione had to place it, she would guess it might be Rabastan. "Utter failure. Had to have Severus come in and save him. Typical."

Hermione gritted her teeth. That "first mission" they referred to was the punishment he'd received from Voldemort after his father's failure in the Department of Mysteries, the task of killing Dumbledore, something which was virtually a suicide mission. He'd been merely sixteen, having just lost his father to Azkaban. How could they be so crass? His own aunt and uncle?

She continued on, relieved when the door to the northern wing was unlocked. The door swung forward without complaint. They picked up the pace as they approached the door at the end of the hall, the one that led to the spiral staircase. Hermione paused at the base of the stairs, dropping the charm on the three of them.

"I need you to stay down here," she said in a whisper. "Make sure the coast is clear. Dean, you should go into that parlor there, hide and listen. Neville, can you go back to that music room, keep your eyes on the coal shoot and the hallway, our exit needs to be as smooth as possible. Dean, if you should see anyone heading upstairs, send a message through the coin. Neville, the same for you."

They both nodded.

"Are you certain it is safe to go alone?" Neville asked worriedly. "He won't —"

"I'll be fine," the witch said shortly. "I'll see you in just a few minutes."

With that she turned and walked up the spiral staircase, returning to the tower for what she hoped was the last time.

**\--XXX—**


	12. Chapter 12

**—XXX—**

He was silhouetted in the window, next to the armchair she spent so many hours tucked in. Draco didn't notice her entry, his eyes far and away on the Manor's grounds, likely pondering his last hours. He was dressed in black slacks and a shirt that was nearly as white as his skin. It hung off his frame dangerously. Hermione noted the holes, bloodstains, and black singed bits. He was not as badly hurt as Valentine's Day, but it all still looked painful. Her heart clenched at the bruising she could make out on his jawline, purple blossoming like cabbage roses against an ivory backdrop, a pattern of pale scruff from days without a shave.

Hermione stepped into the room, feeling the gravity immediately. Not much had changed in the months she had been gone. The bed was made, waiting for her. The book she'd been reading was still on the small table where she ate dinner. The fire wasn't lit and things were a bit dusty, but otherwise it was much the same. Perhaps no one had sought to clean it since Meldy was granted freedom.

It all felt surreal. She moved forward slowly, trying not to surprise him. But she was not successful – after catching the corner of his eye, Draco whipped 'round. He remained tense at the sight of her, however, not trusting his own eyes.

"I –" she began, then stopped. She had not really planned a speech. Hermione tried again. "We've come for you. To get you out. Me and Dean and Neville and Luna. From Durmstrang."

He simply stared.

"Draco." Desperate, she surged forward, hands outstretched. "Please, we have your mother. She's coming with us. We need to go, Vol—You-Know-Who will be here at dawn."

His expression was still wary.

Hallucinations were a form of torment that certain Death Eaters were known for. A particularly cruel method was administered through a Nightmare Potion, a brew that gave the drinker horrifically realistic dreams. Or oftentimes repeated exposure to the Cruciatus Curse could result in loss of certain mental capabilities. Hermione was running through the list of after-effects in her mind when the wizard, who had been eyeing her hands, suddenly moved. In mere seconds, Hermione found herself crushed against Malfoy's thin chest, his face buried in the cloud of her hair.

She squeezed back, eyes watering from both the emotion swelling inside of her and Draco's grip. One of his hands had caught hers and she felt a peculiar twisting. _The ring,_ she thought. The very one Narcissa had recognized too.

Draco inhaled her scent before moving back, eyes scanning her face. "You're truly here, aren't you?"

"Yes," she breathed. "Kingsley told us. I couldn't – you don't deserve –"

He didn't let her finish. Draco gently cut her off with a kiss, surprising the witch enough that she froze before returning it. He held the back of her head steady, gentle, as she leaned in, sighing into his lips before pulling back to lean his forehead against her brow.

"I was sure they'd found you," he said hoarsely. "And that was what had set all of this in motion. That they'd realized where you'd been here under their noses all these months and —"

After everything, he had been worried about her well-being. Whatever anger she had caused by her leaving, it had clearly been overshadowed by the fear that she would be lost forever. It was enough to make tears spring to her eyes.

"I was safe. And now we need to make sure you are safe too. We can bring you and your mother with us. But we must hurry. I promise I will explain everything —"

He kissed her again, wincing as his split lip made contact against. Hermione slipped for just one moment, returning the gesture, enjoying the feeling of his fingers winding into her hair. Her hands rested on his chest, feeling the hollow flutter of his heart beneath the cotton of his shirt. His urgency was tangible. Hermione suspected it wasn't solely due to the situation in which he found himself. She could taste blood, his wound opening with the pressure. The coppery tinge somehow wasn't wholly unpleasant.

A sigh came from the doorway. "Oh Draco," a hoarse voice said. "You just don't know when to stop."

Bellatrix Lestrange stood in the threshold, leaning against the frame of the arched doorway, one brow raised on her waxy face, wand playing between her thin fingers. For a split second, no one moved.

Hermione withdrew her wand in a flash, moving to place her body in front of the unarmed wizard she'd just been kissing. Bella already had hers trained on them, a wide smile spreading like butter on hot toast.

"Draco," his aunt scolded. "What are we going to do with you? It seems you have a soft spot for mudbloods and blood traitors."

"We are going to leave," Hermione said flatly, despite the quiver in her chest. "Stand down, Bellatrix."

Bella's lips split in a manic smile. " _Crucio."_

The Unforgivable bounced off of Hermione's shield, much to Bella's disappointment. She sent another one swiftly, which reverberated with a fury that shuddered the whole tower when again it failed to meet its mark. Hermione's heart fluttered.

"He is your own nephew!" Hermione shouted. "What is wrong with you?"

The elder witch snorted. "I would kill my own sisters if they proved to be such weaklings — Andromeda did. I killed her husband, which was close enough. Dromeda and her mutt are next."

Hermione hissed, sending a stinging hex Bella's direction before she pulled the wardrobe and bed to the middle of the room, creating a barrier of furniture between them. It wouldn't hold long with the blasting charms the elder witch was sending, but she could hope for a few seconds. Had Neville missed Bella make her way upstairs? Was he hurt?

Draco, still behind her, watched helplessly. Without a wand he was as good as useless. Setting his mind of finding an exit while Hermione fought his deranged aunt, he looked around the circular room frantically. Bella blocked the one door. Their backs were to the window, but they couldn't —

Bella laugh. "You really must try harder. That's a spell for first years. _Reducto!"_

She blasted the wardrobe. Splinters flew into the air, smoke billowing from the other side of the room. Hermione had maneuvered the armchairs, piling them and creating another out of a lamp, building up her barrier. She'd run out of furniture soon. And then what?

Draco turned to the massive windows. He scanned the area, finding a fire poker that must have been a victim of Bella's blasting. Grabbing it, he struck the window. It took several tries, but he managed to break the pane of the center one. Peering out, he examined the terrain below.

The ground was an awfully long way down.

He touched her wrist that wasn't directing a wand. "Hermione. Come here."

She allowed herself to be half-dragged to the window, still fending off the hexes Bellatrix as sending. The armchairs were burning, and he could see the outline of his aunt through the flames.

Hermione looked at him with a soot-smeared face and wide eyes. "Draco?"

Without asking he took her wand.

" _Spongify,"_ he shouted. And then he pulled them both out of the window, arm around Hermione's waist.

On their way towards the ground, he heard Bella's roar in the background and Hermione's shriek right in his ear.

They landed with a bounce on the ground Draco had softened just before their fall. He kept his grip on her as they briefly flew upwards.

Draco shouted " _Roll!"_

Tucking their heads, they both rolled off of the patch of spongy grass. Breathless, Hermione was the one first on her feet. She helped haul Draco up. He returned her wand, then set about dusting them both off. There was a great deal of grass on them, streaks of green added to the singed and bloody shirt he still wore.

"That was clever," she panted, righting the messy bun atop her crown. He rather thought the sight of flustered Granger was cute. "Though terrifying."

"High praise from you. What now?"

She hesitated. "I imagine Bella is storming downstairs to find us. But Dean and Neville are back inside."

He frowned. "Can you summon them?"

She pulled out a coin. He recognized it with a laugh. "You never change, Granger."

Once the message was sent, she pulled him towards the gardens, half jogging, half-crouching. Hopefully, by now Luna and Narcissa had lowered the wards. With any luck, the boys would meet them back at the hidden entrance.

**—XXX—**

Narcissa let out a muffled shriek at the sight of her bloodied and bruised son. With a wince, Hermione wished she had thought to _scourgify_ him. No matter. Narcissa quickly embraced him, tears streaming down her face as she stroked his hair and wept. Draco clutched her. Hermione thought she saw the glisten of tears trail down his own cheeks.

"Where are the others?" Luna asked Hermione with a frown. "I got the message."

"Bella found us in the tower," she replied grimly. "I had them hang back to warn me if anyone entered. But somehow she made it up there. I sent them a message through the coins. I hope — I hope she didn't notice them."

Because the alternative was far worse. Luna's violet-grey eyes flickered to the outline of the house.

"If they don't return…?"

"I'll go back," Hermione said simply. "You get them back to Durmstrang. I'll find the boys and we'll follow when we can."

Draco, who had pulled away from his mother, protested. "We cannot leave any of you behind. What's the good in getting us out if three others are lost? You're as pigheaded as Potter, Granger. We're not leaving you."

She scoffed. "You hardly have room to call me pigheaded —"

Their bickering was interrupted by the crack of a twig underfoot. Everyone froze wands at the ready. However, relief soon fell as Neville, being half-dragged by Dean, came into view, their disillusionment charm melting. Hermione moved quickly to support Neville's other side. There was a cut on Dean's forehead which was already crusting blood against his dark skin. Neville appeared mostly unscathed except for his right leg, which was dragging uselessly behind him.

"We were drawn into that parlor," Dean huffed as he help Neville lean against a nearby tree. "They must have realized we were there, we heard screaming — a woman screaming, we thought it was you, Hermione, that they'd slipped past us somehow. We were ambushed but managed to get back to that room with the coal chute. That's when we saw your coin. Figured it could be another trap, but we were better off leaving either way."

"It's broke, " Neville explained, gesturing to his leg. "McNair dropped a grandfather clock on it. Healing bones is so tricky, we didn't have time. What happened to you?"

Neville cursed softly when Hermione outlined what they'd encountered in the Tower. "I wonder how long they knew we were there?"

"Please, we can discuss this later. The wards will be noticed soon, if they haven't been already," Narcissa said softly. "We ought to leave."

"Yes," Hermione agreed, nodding at the elder witch with appreciation. "I think I can manage a portkey. Let me find —"

She had removed the beaded purse from around her waist, prepared to dig through the contents for the teapot they'd used earlier, when the air shifted abruptly. Hermione smell the ashen scent of magic, heard the familiar crackle of magic in the air. For the second time, everyone froze, eyes towards the tree line.

Moonlight revealed the outline of four figures moving through the trees, cloaked and hooded save for Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Now this is rude," she purred as they neared. Rabastan, Dolohov, and Yaxley stood by her side, their faces deep in shadow. "Leaving before the guest of honor is to arrive?"

Everyone tensed themselves for battle. Gravity seemed to pull them together, each shifting nearer the others. The Death Eaters might have been outnumbered, but their ruthlessness more than made up for it. Once again, Draco was wandless, standing between his mother and Hermione. There was no window to jump out of this time.

"You know, I think it would delight the Dark Lord to find the four of you in the dungeons at dawn," Bella continued thoughtfully, wide dark eyes swinging towards the young Order members. "Though certainly disappointed to find you in there, Cissy."

Narcissa's chin jerked upwards. "Your own sister, Bella?" she asked coldly.

"For the Dark Lord? I would tear anyone apart to serve him," she hissed.

This answer certainly did not surprise Narcissa, who merely stared steadily at her sibling, her blue eyes hard as sapphires.

"Will we have the pleasure of killing you here or letting you languish in the Malfoy family dungeons? I know Lovegood here is familiar with our accommodations," Bella leered at Luna. "But Mudblood Granger didn't get the opportunity the last time we met. A pity, which we must rectify."

Hermione scoffed. "We aren't going anywhere with you."

It happened so quickly. Bella's wand flicked, aiming straight for her. Shields were second nature to Hermione by now, so she summoned one in a flash as the other Death Eaters surged forward. Yaxley went for Neville, while Dolohov sent a curse Luna's direction. Dean pulled her out of the way of it while also snagging the collar of Neville's shirt, sheltering them all behind the tree, which rumbled from the force of the curses that struck it.

"Go after them," Bella barked as Narcissa took her son's hand, running through the trees. Rabastan and Yaxley took off, their cloaks fluttering as they dove headfirst into the woods.

Hermione sent a body-bind curse towards Yaxley, who tumbled forward, straight as a plank. She had moved behind another tree and was level with the others.

"We're okay here," Dean said, a little breathless as he deflected another strike from Dolohov. "Go after them, Draco doesn't even have a wand."

 _Good point,_ Hermione thought, setting off at a sprint in the direction of the lights that blazed back and forth through the trees. Both parties were shooting stunners. Did Voldemort order that the Malfoys be kept alive? Or would Bella try to make their escape look like less of a fumble on the Death Eater's part?

Somehow she managed to dodge the flashes of green that Bella sent her way with a venomous tone, throwing another binding hex.

 _"Flipendo,"_ she called, nearing the clearing where Rabastan had cornered the Malfoys. He moved to ward it off, but wasn't quick enough, causing him to flip (somewhat comically) backwards. To Hermione's grim pleasure, he struck the trunk of a nearby tree mid-air, slumping against in as he slid downwards.

Narcissa said " _Incarcerous,"_ firmly and thick black cord appeared like snakes, binding Rabastan efficiently. Her hair had fallen out of its intricate style, her checks were smeared with dirt and sweat, but she had a certain aura of satisfaction about her as she watched the rope coil and tighten against the Death Eater.

Hermione was impressed. She hadn't thought the Malfoy matriarch had it in her.

Chest heaving, the elder witch jerked her head back towards the trees nearer the edge of the forest. They could see the flashes of spells. "We should go back. They're clearly struggling."

Draco loomed over Rabastan, holding his newly-won wand. "Should we -" He nodded at Rabastan.

"No," Narcissa said sharply.

Hermione smiled faintly, pleased when Narcissa smiled back uncertainly.

Draco leaned down and murmured something indiscernible. Nothing visible occurred, but he answered, "Sleeping spell," at Hermione's questioning look, adding, "Can't hurt."

They hurried back towards the others, ready to throw themselves in the fight again. Hermione and Draco jogged, Narcissa staying a few meters behind. Draco quietly mentioned that she had been struck by Cruciatus a little before Hermione had reached them. "She'll be alright. It just took the wind out of her."

The scene they approached was one of chaos. Dean and Luna had moved out from behind the tree, sparring with Bella. Dolohov was on the ground, his face swollen with fat red boils, his eyes a yellow-orange with burst blood vessels. He was gurgling. Hermione suspected a combination of hexes and jinxes had rendered him useless.

McNair had joined Bella, baring his teeth as he sent a spell barreling into the tree that Neville was leaning out from behind.

But Neville wasn't alone. _Ginny_ stood next to him, firing her signature bat boogey hex from around the trunk. It landed, causing McNair to screamed, his nose jerking wildly as the boogies flapped, fighting to get out of his nose. Bella in turn screeched in frustration.

Ginny Weasley, her task done, rounded on the approaching figures.

"Ginny," Hermione cried at the sight of the younger girl.

The youngest Weasley glanced up, gasping. "Thank goodness," she blurted. "I got the message on the coin and I — "

"We're alright," she assured Ginny. "Mostly."

Another scream sounded from nearby. All five heads turned to see Bella gnashing her teeth. Luna had struck her, landing a fiery burn on Bella's shoulder with a flame flower curse. The sight of singed lace and flesh caused Bella to shriek and aim a curse at Luna.

For a moment the world seemed to stand still. Hermione was back that night, her and Luna and Ginny aiming spell after spell at a laughing Bella, who turned between the three young witches attempting to contain her. The castle crumbling around them, bricks and stone littering the ground. Tonk's eyes glazed with death. She could smell smoke and blood and pain. And she could see Luna was seeing the same thing.

It was Ginny who struck first. Running out from behind the tree, she threw a spell out. Hermione didn't even hear what she cast. But Bella was suddenly frozen, her dark eyes wide. And then she crashed to the ground silently, dead leaves crunching beneath her prone form.

The forest was still for a few long seconds. Then, McNair moaned and Draco spat out another sleeping spell. He fell quiet.

"Is she dead?" Hermione ventured.

"Yes," Ginny said simply, offering no other explanation.

Dean moved over to Neville, helping him shuffle to stand among the others. Luna, who looked pale and shaken, embraced Ginny, who had a far-off look in her eyes. Narcissa sank onto a nearby boulder, taking deep breaths. Her eyes were on Bella, unreadable.

Hermione surveyed the group. She suspected none of them had the strength to apparate as far as Northern Europe. Taking a portkey was a risk. But one she'd take tonight. Without a word, she pulled out her beaded bag, which was looking a little threadbare, and withdrew the teapot. She envisioned their destination and murmured _"portus."_ Draco came up beside her.

"Are you ready?" she asked softly. "There are going to be a lot of people there who won't like you. Won't listen."

His eyes went to the treeline. It was unlikely he could see his familial home from this distance, but Hermione could see his hands clench. Abandoning one's childhood home was no easy thing. She remembered.

"Not so different from here."

She half-loved him for the pathetic attempt at a joke. It reminded her of Harry. Hermione offered her hand.

"But really, is this...okay?"

He rolled his eyes. "Hermione, yes."

She squeezed his fingers once before calling the others to surround the teapot, which she'd place on the top of a stump. Her eyes flickered to his once more before something in her navel tugged and she was swept away.

**-XXX-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action is not my forte, but hopefully you enjoyed the demise of Bella.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for self-harm.
> 
> Wow, we've made it! The final chapter!
> 
> Some version of this story has been bouncing around in my head for a while. It's taken a different shape over time, but I'm glad to have gotten it out. Thank you so much for enduring long waits between chapters and coming on this journey with me. I've got another H/D story in the works, and this one is a little spoooooky. If you simply can't wait to read more, my FF.net has 96 other stories that have not ventured over to Ao3.

**—** **XXX—**

Durmstrang's welcome was less than warm. Everyone who had known of their mission had been on the mission, save for Victor Krum. Needless to say, there was a great deal of uproar around the Malfoys' arrival. Their name was unmistakable. Order members protested, loudly, in the meeting after their return from Britain, torn between disbelief that their noble Hermione had been so blinded by her own goodness to save two Malfoys, and their general fury over their certainty that Narcissa and Draco would inevitably betray them somehow. The students and faculty of the school were equally upset that they were sheltering close allies of the Dark Lord. For a school known for their curriculum in the Dark Arts, the war in Britain had changed some perceptions. Followers of the Dark Lord were not to be welcomed at the school.

Victor brushed off these concerns for the time being, putting Draco and Narcissa in a suite away from the other refugees. "They are seeking asylum," he always said gruffly when they argument arose.

He was also far from pleased, especially when he spotted the way Draco held Hermione's waist to steady her upon their entry into the castle after several hours walking to the school's wards. Still, he said nothing, defended Hermione vehemently, merely wore a surly expression anytime Draco was around. She'd always known Victor was a good man.

Neville's leg was healed promptly, amidst the yelling when they were deposited in the meeting room. He would have a bit of a limp in cold weather — they had waited a little too long to get it set, according to the healer. But it didn't seem to both him much even in Durmstrang's chilly climate.

Everyone was a little worse for wear. Dean drank an entire bottle of Firewhisky with Neville despite Augusta's protest that it would thin the blood. Narcissa and Draco melted into their small part of the castle, only opening the door to a dinner tray. Luna sank into a couch in the meeting room, breathing deeply and meditating off and on for a few hours before Oliver Wood carried her small body into the room she shared with Sybil Trewlawny, who clucked over the Ravenclaw and made her pot after pot of blackberry tea.

Hermione slept nearly twelve hours straight after the first blow up in the meeting room, woke and felt guilty that she had missed her transfiguration tutoring session, only to be scolded by Ginny for worrying about such things. Then she collapsed back onto her mattress and slept another eight hours.

A few days following their return, once again the refugees gathered around the parlor to hear Kingsley's update.

Kingsley had not been exactly enthusiastic about Hermione's desire to retrieve the son of one of the Dark Lord's biggest supporters. He'd practically given her a whole speech outlining his displeasure once they had a moment to speak alone the day before. Now she received a public dressing-down. Their little mission could potentially endanger Durmstrang. She or any one of them could have died during the attempt. Any number of things could have or still happen.

But he was pleased to announce that Voldemort was fuming at the loss of his favorite follower and the fact that not one, but two traitors had slipped through his fingers.

"Good work," he told the group of young Order members with grudging respect. "Don't do it again."

"Any word on Lucius?" Hermione asked. Narcissa and Draco were absent, not exactly feeling welcome among the others quite yet. She was sure they'd want to know.

Kingsley shrugged. "No. I think we can assume that he's taken the brunt of the punishment mean for his wife and son, but if so we've not heard anything of it."

Hermione bit her lip. She hardly liked the cold Malfoy patriarch, but he was Draco's father. She didn't like to think that he'd been left to endure Voldemort's fury.

They moved onto other topics. Kingsley mentioned a few things in passing that perked Hermione's ears, but she stayed quiet for the rest of the meeting. When the fire died down and everyone broke to talk, she slipped out of the room before anyone could drag her into a conversation. Or another scolding. A few eyes followed her movements, some with suspicion and others with curiosity.

**-XXX-**

She found Draco in a drafty corner of the library. Smaller than Hogwart's, there were many more nooks and crannies to search. He sat at one window, looking out a landscape below. The snow glistened under the light of a waxing moon and there was bluish cast about the whole picture. The reflected aura made his pale skin even more silvery. He made a beautiful picture, one that made her heartache. Even more so as her gaze traced the bruises along his jaw and crisscross of scars along his hands, the only exposed skin she could see beyond his marred face. No doubt there were more, hidden.

"Hello," she said softly, reluctant to break the reverie.

Draco glanced up slowly, watching as she moved into the small space, taking a seat near his feet, her head resting against his knee. In a strange twist, he was now often the silent one. She found herself coaxing even the smallest bit of conversation from him, much as he had once tried with her.

"We just met with Kingsley," she said without preamble. "He said a few things that made me think they're preparing to move against the Ministry in a coup."

This caught his interest. "Oh?"

The witch nodded. "I think that they're still fine-tuning. But it seems that he's finally managed to convince the French and Spanish minsters that the Dark Lord taking over the UK would not be to their benefit. The French minister is half-blooded, you know. And there was some recent support from Australia, Brazil, and Canada that makes me think they're making some of the calculated moves towards something big. Portugal and Norway have already openly stood against him, they've all bringing their ambassadors home, finally. I heard Ginny mentioned last week that Egypt was sending several cursebreaks to France. Quietly, of course. Old friends of Bill's."

He hummed, letting a few fingers slip into her hair.

Hermione sighed. "I think they ought to remove the Ministry altogether."

The wizard frowned. "What?"

"It's only like three hundred years old," she said with a dismissive wave. "Founded in 1707. In the history of the wizarding world, that's hardly an established organization. And honestly, I haven't been too impressed thus far. They've been overtaken by an evil wizard, deposed one of the best Headmasters Hogwarts has known, nearly took Harry's wand, failed to stop the slavery of numerous intelligent creatures, failed to make any progress on werewolve's rights…they are just so incompetent. Better to start from scratch."

"You're a revolutionary," Draco said in wonder. "An anarchist."

She shoved him lightly and they both managed something like a chuckle.

"I don't think we need to revert back to an egalitarian hunter-gather society," she said dryly. "Just, you know. There are probably better systems we could put in place. With more checks and balances. More accountability. The current Ministry is all old wizarding families, hardly anyone muggleborn or half-blood, you know. Even before - before the war. It's far too conservative in comparison to many countries. There are initiatives in Denmark, you know, to have wizarding families sort of 'adopt' the families of muggleborns. To make sure that things are just sprung on them when their child turns eleven. And many countries separate their Magical Creatures departments from those that work with more intelligent beings, like elves and centaurs. There are whole departments dedicated to overseeing werewolves employment."

Her excitement made his heart swell strangely.

"Are you campaigning?" he teased. "Granger, back on her SPEW platform."

"Never in a thousand years." She sniffed. "Politics isn't for me."

"No," he considered, wrapping one long finger with a lock of her tawny hair, tugging lightly. "You're not nearly heartless enough."

Draco mulled over her words on the Order's attempts to take Britain back. "Will they call anyone here up? I mean, it's not like you haven't had experience in battle…."

She snorted. It was not a delicate snort. "I doubt it. Despite everything they still see most of us as kids. Most people here are...not ones they'd send to the frontlines. And to be honest, I don't think I feel up to another — another display of violence."

He nodded in agreement, sitting back against the stone casing of the window.

"I'm tired," she continued softly. "That is a horrid thing to say, a lazy thing. But I am so very tired of fighting for my right to exist."

Silence settles between them for a few minutes. Hermione almost thought he drifted off before he asked, "That isn't a horrid thing."

"Isn't it?"

"Hermione, every year since you were eleven you've dealt with people trying to kill you, minimum once a year. You are allowed to want rest."

At this, she laughed. And then she began to cry.

Draco's arms went around her as her shoulder began to shake. He said nothing, merely let her cry until the tears faded to hiccups.

Pushing back the remains wetness, Hermione turned back in the circle of his embrace to kiss his cheek damply. "Thank you," she whispered against his bruised flesh. He squeezed her back in response.

**—** **XXX—**

When Narcissa announced that she and Draco were going to France, to a safe house owned by a cousin tucked into a rural village near Foix, Hermione felt a little uncertain. Draco asked her immediately to accompany them. His stormy eyes had been reluctant, clearly suspecting she'd choose the Order over him. But he could not seem to resist asking.

"I know it's likely you won't say yes." he admitted.

 _But I want you to,_ went unsaid.

_I would simply follow you, if you couldn't bring yourself to follow me._

She hesitated in giving an answer for a few days, alternating between guilt that she was abandoning those she loved on both sides and fear that she was imposing on the Malfoys.

Neville and Luna encouraged her — they were heading to Ireland to join up with Oliver and some other Order members, preparing for their next move against the Dark Lord.

"You've done more than enough," Neville told her kindly.

"So have you," she said, half-hysterical. "And your grandmother!"

"Gran wouldn't dream of stopping me. No one will think less of you," he told her firmly. "Go. You'll be needed when we have to build wizarding Britain back from scratch. Not everyone is meant to be on the front lines. Not everyone is Harry, Hermione."

She burst into tears, still undecided, but grateful.

Draco said nothing in the two weeks between proposing the idea and their departure. That almost made things worse. They met, often in secluded nooks of the library, and talked about everything. Everything but their direct, individual futures. It hurt them both to dance around the notion. Draco's eyes grew darker and darker with each passing day.

It was actually Ginny, again, who surprisingly helped her make the decision. She was meeting her parents in France before they headed to Romania. She offered to accompany Hermione.

"He clearly wants to do best by you," Ginny said one night as they laid in their respective beds, the lights in the room dimmed. "And Narcissa isn't so bad, really. I think they truly want you to come with them. And you can always join us in Romania, later, if you decide you can't stand France."

"I know," Hermione said wearily, braiding her hair back, a nightly ritual aimed at taming her curls. It rarely achieved its goal. "But I feel like I'm turning my back on everyone —"

"Do you think I'm abandoning the cause?" Ginny demanded.

"No, of course not!"

"Then you aren't either." Ginny sat back against her pillows, satisfied. "Hermione, we've survived a war. Lost friends, family, our futures. And we're barely adults. I mean, I think we can both admit we're barely okay, even a year and a half later. We've earned the opportunity to lay low for a bit. In France, you'll still be near the action, but you will be safe."

Hermione bit her lip.

"I'll write every week," she promised suddenly. "And we'll keep an eye on Bill, Fleur, and the baby. When all of this settles —"

"It's not goodbye forever. Just for now."

The next day, when she tentatively told Narcissa, the elder witch smiled brilliantly and squeezed Hermione's arm — a good as a hug, by Narcissa Black's standards — and said she was pleased.

Draco must have heard from his mother, for her practically slammed into her later that afternoon in the greenhouse, descending upon her without a word, crushing her to him and kissing her senseless. Hermione curled her hands into the loose fabric of his jumper, squeaking slightly when his mouth began moving against hers.

Neville, who had been cleaning up his potting bench in the corner, quickly made himself scarse.

**—** **XXX—**

Draco hadn't wanted to make a show of it, but Hermione had found him in his room, knife at the ready. They were leaving in two days, and he was supposed to be packing (which really wasn't going to take long considering he had only two changes of clothes, generously provided by a surly Krum, made even more surely by the news that Hermione Granger was leaving). Instead of taking all of two minutes to put his meager belongs into his pack, he'd instead headed to the potions supply closet and filched a silver blade. The student he passed on his way all gave him uncertain looks, but Draco just walked with purpose and avoided all hesitation. He needed this done, and tonight.

Hermione had been meeting with her tutoring students one final time. She must have finished early, for she slipped into his room unannounced right as he made the first slice across the flesh of his forearm.

The squeaking sound she made startled him enough that he dropped his knife. The blade clattered to the floor with a slight ring that reverberated throughout the room for several seconds.

Hermione surged forward, wand withdrawn undoubtedly so as to staunch the flow of deep red blood pouring from his wound. Draco held up his injured arm, hand flat in the air as the opposite hand clutched the cut.

"It's fine," he warned. "I - I need to do this."

She finished crossing the room and drew the injured limb towards her.

His Dark Mark had a diagonal slash through it, bisecting the black skull and snake at an angle. Ink was also seeping from the wound, sizzling slightly as it made contact with the air. She let out a breath.

Draco drew her close, careful not to get any blood on her blouse, arm outstretched. He pressed his nose to her temple, breathing deeply. "I need to do this," he repeated. Was he convincing himself or her?

It didn't matter, in the end.

Hermione nodded, drawing back. "At least let me get some bandages," she said softly. "And some water. To clean it."

She watched, barely holding her breath as he made a second slash across the brand, completing an "X." This time his hand was less steady, the cut deeper and not quite at a perfect angle. The joint where the two lines met was off-center. But it was done.

Blood stained his white skin, mingling with onyx ink that had been released upon the incisions. She doubted that it would be so easy. He would probably always feel the burn of a summons. It might be fainter or perhaps even worse, now. He would always feel the summons, until the day the Dark Lord died.

In the end, he allowed her to bandage the wound after cleaning it. She carefully rinsed the area then applied a cleansing charm for good measure. Draco waited patiently as she did, keeping his eyes off his handiwork.

"Does that…change anything?" She nodded to the now neatly wrapped section of forearm.

Draco hesitated. "I'm not sure. I've never known anyone to try."

There. The truth. He'd not held out any delusions that this would change anything. His blood - had it been purely symbolic?

Hermione impulsively laced his fingers with hers. "One day soon, it will stop burning altogether."

A part of him wanted to smile at her hope. It was hope like hers that had made him risk everything to steal a girl from a pile of bodies and hide her away for a year. Hope that had kept him coming to his silent prisoner, day after day. Hope that had been the only thing fueling him during the months when he was certain she was dead.

Instead of smiling, he leaned his head against hers again and simply breathed. In time, her breath matched his.

**-XXX-**

**Author's Note:**

> Annnd that's chapter one. Draco is rather hard to write - he is such a morally gray character, it's easy to swing him super dark or super light. I find him rather sympathetic, especially in the last two books of the series.
> 
> Hermione is without a doubt one of my favorite characters and as the female lead I often feel as though she gets the short end of the stick with everyone pairing her up every which way. Personally I tend to favor Tom Riddle and Draco Malfoy shippings myself, but I'm a sucker for that sort of contentious fire and ice dynamic, plus I don't think there are many others who can keep up with her wit and cunning. Certainly not Ron or Harry.


End file.
